


...And Then There Were Four

by SuePokorny



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-18
Updated: 2016-05-02
Packaged: 2018-06-03 01:09:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 31,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6590530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuePokorny/pseuds/SuePokorny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Accompanying the King on a foray to Belle Île, the Musketeers fall victim to a series of deadly accidents. But are they truly accidents? And can they discover who is behind the deaths before all of the Musketeers fall?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I thought I’d try my hand at an old fashioned murder mystery. ☺ Musketeer style, of course. Many thanks to my wonderful beta, Sharlot, who I cannot do this without. I bow to your wisdom. ☺

**…And Then There Were Four**

**Chapter One**

Athos sighed as the royal carriage came to a halt once again. Louis’ pale hand extended through the curtained window, white lace handkerchief waving languorously in the breeze.

“I wonder what our gracious King could possibly need this time,” Aramis wondered aloud. He made a valiant attempt to conceal his grin, but his voice betrayed his amusement.

It had been a long journey from Paris, the King stopping the caravan almost hourly for some impetuous request or another. They were close to their destination of the city of Vannes, but the constant and superfluous demands of the King had slowed their pace, making what was normally a three day journey take almost five, and severely testing Athos’ already strained nerves.

“Whatever it is, I’m sure it is of the utmost importance,” the marksman continued, unabated in his sardonic narrative. “As was the last stop where he insisted on having his afternoon refreshments even though it was hardly noon and there was no source of water in sight. Or the one before when he –”

“Your point?” Athos interrupted. He rolled his eyes; Aramis was enjoying his frustration entirely too much and he silently cursed him for it.

It had been a true test of their devotion to the crown to escort Louis on this excursion – one Athos had every intention of reporting to Treville in excruciating detail while enjoying the fine bottle of brandy the Captain hid behind his desk when they returned. Tasked with command, it was Athos’ duty to see to the King’s demands, something he was finding quite challenging in the wake of the monarch’s numerous indulgences and limited tolerance. 

Traveling such a distance by padded coach was much more relaxing than on horseback, though if Athos knew of a swifter way to get Louis to his destination, he would gladly make use of it. Unfortunately, reality did not offer them a way to bring Vannes closer to Paris, so his Highness had little choice but to tolerate the relatively comfortable means of transport, though he had spent the better part of the journey making his displeasure known. Once they reached the port, they would board the ferry that would take them through Quiberon Bay to their final destination of Belle Île. Athos could only hope the vast waters of the Bay and the ocean beyond – a view unavailable in Paris – would temper the tedium of the long journey and give pause to Louis’ adverse behavior.

It had been Cardinal Richelieu who had insisted Louis speak with the Marquis of Belle Île, Nicolas Foquet, about the appointment as his new Finance Minister, convincing the King of the benefits of gracing Foquet with his presence as opposed to summoning him to Paris. Louis had reluctantly agreed to the journey, petulantly stating it would be refreshing to take a holiday from what he deemed the grueling trials of being a monarch. Though he had first sought to accompany the King, failing health had forced the Cardinal to stay behind – an occurrence that was both a gift and a curse. 

Richelieu had appeared relieved to have an excuse to avoid the long journey to the western coast of France, but the Queen had been obviously disappointed, stating her desire to see the blue of the ocean. Despite his normal selfish need for company, Louis had reluctantly conceded that she should listen to the physicians who cautioned her to remain behind for the sake of her unborn child. While having the Cardinal or the Queen to accompany him may have made Louis more amenable and the journey easier on everyone, the Cardinal’s health and the Queen’s pregnancy were of concern. So, without anyone else to entertain him or listen to his constant complaints, His Majesty’s concerns fell to Athos to handle.

“Athos?” Louis voice, petulant as always, drifted back toward the Musketeers riding at the rear of the coach.

“Mon dieu, kill me now,” Athos mumbled under his breath, eliciting a low chuckle from Aramis at his side.

Ignoring his friend, he slowly pulled his mount out of formation, taking the time to assess the troops whom he had been assigned command.

Porthos and d’Artagnan rode at the front of the procession followed by Andrés, an old soldier who was as broad as Porthos but not nearly as tall, and Deguasse, a new recruit on his first mission. While he’d had his doubts about taking either of them on, Treville had assured him Deguasse was quite capable and would follow directions to the letter, eager to impress, and willing to do whatever it took to become a member of the King’s guard.

Andrés on the other hand, had little respect for his temporary commander and didn’t have a problem letting it be known. Having been passed up for promotion many times due to his lack of leadership skills, Andrés was of the opinion that seniority was more important than ability, and believed command of the mission should have fallen to either himself or Aramis due to the fact they had been commissioned long before anyone else. Athos knew Aramis had no desire to command, content to follow his lead, though quite capable if the situation demanded. Andrés was not as satisfied with the arrangement. Athos expected resistance at some point, though so far, the older man had merely taken to grumbling his dissatisfaction with the circumstances, neither making an attempt to malign nor aid in Athos’ decisions. He didn’t know if it would last, but he was content to ignore the man’s obvious disdain in the meantime.

Aramis rode beside him, directly behind the King’s coach, leading the other four men assigned to the detail. As he glanced back, he noted Aramis speaking with Bernajoux, a handsome, affable man whose liaisons with women rivaled Aramis’ rumored conquests. How much of Bernajoux’ amorous activities were true was anyone’s guess, but while Aramis’ dalliances were of the heart, it seemed Bernajoux simply enjoyed the challenge. It had been said some of his conquests had been less than … amicable… but there had been no complaints or accusations brought forth as of yet, so Treville had been content to ignore the gossip until there was something to substantiate the rumors. After all, if one were to believe everything said about Aramis’ conquests, you would have to wonder how the man found time to do anything else. Bernajoux’ mouth broke into a grin beneath his heavy moustache at Aramis’ murmured comment and Athos rolled his eyes, wondering what the two could find so amusing about the situation. 

As Athos swung his horse out into the tall grass bordering the road, his gaze shifted to Mordelle, a newly commissioned Musketeer riding next to Bernajoux. The young man leaned so far forward to join in on the other Musketeers’ revelry, Athos feared he would topple awkwardly from the saddle. It was no secret his commission had been purchased by his uncle, but it was a common practice, one many a Musketeer had taken advantage of. 

Mordelle had taken an instant like to Aramis, following the marksman, constantly offering to accompany him on any mission he could be of service. Aramis had welcomed the young man at first, but Athos could tell Mordelle’s almost obsessive regard for the Spaniard was beginning to wear thin, leaving Aramis increasingly uncomfortable in his presence. He’d taken the ribbing from Porthos and d’Artagnan well concerning his new shadow, but even they had begun to see the tension the young man’s behavior was having on their friend and had done what they could to keep the new man busy with tasks that would keep him away from Aramis’ path.

Unfortunately, Treville had assigned him to the detail – at Mordell’s own request Athos had learned – before any of them could caution the Captain against it. Aramis had simply shrugged when he’d been informed of Mordelle’s inclusion, smiling in concession, promising to make the best of the uncomfortable situation. Even now Athos could see how the young man’s attention wore on his friend as Mordelle attempted to insert himself in their conversation, but Aramis appeared at ease, his smile quite genuine to anyone who didn’t know him well.

Bringing up the rear of the procession, horses stomping impatiently, were La Porte and Brisemont, both seasoned soldiers of mild temperament. La Porte mostly associated with Andrés, which gave Athos pause, but the tall, thin man had shown no outward disrespect toward his command so far. Brisemont, on the other hand, was quiet, well read and obviously of noble birth if Athos judgment was correct. He didn’t speak of his past – he didn’t speak much at all – content to follow orders and serve to the best of his ability. Athos wished the regiment had more soldiers like him.

As he pulled his horse alongside the carriage, Louis leaned back, sighing dramatically. “It’s about time. I’m roasting like a pig on a spit inside this confounded contraption.” He fanned himself with his handkerchief uselessly. “How much longer until we reach Vannes?”

Athos clenched his teeth against his frustration, forcing his expression to remain neutral. “An hour or two at most, Sire.” If they could avoid any more unnecessary delays.

“Well then what are we waiting for? Move on! Move on!”

Athos sighed, nodding his acquiescence, not trusting himself to speak. He reined his horse around and gave Porthos a quick nod before returning to his position next to Aramis behind the slow moving coach.

“Look at it this way,” the marksman grinned, leaning closer and lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Once we are onboard the ferry, he will have an entirely new crew to make demands of. Perhaps it will be a momentary reprieve.” 

Athos rolled his eyes, not believing it for a moment.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

The Marquis himself was waiting at the port to welcome Louis to Belle Île. As the King disembarked from the ferry, looking a bit green from the constant tossing of the bay waters, Foquet quickly ensconced him in an elaborate, open carriage for the journey from the dock to his chateau further inland. The Musketeers, having been forced to leave their horses back in Vannes, resigned themselves to walking along behind the carriage while the Marquis’ mounted guards lead the procession.

A short distance from the docks, long, tall walls of smooth gray stone jutted up from the narrow beach, fortifying the shoreline along the coast. Though he could see no armament in plain sight, Aramis was sure there were guns and perhaps even a canon or two providing protection from any unwanted intrusion that may attempt to infringe upon the tranquility of the island. 

From what Treville had told them, Belle Island was often attacked by various sea-borne enemies until it became part of Brittany and French rule under the ownership of the family of Foquet. The walls of the citadel stretched along the coast as far as the eye could see, the rolling waters of the bay thundering against them as they hindered its progress out into the deeper waters of the ocean. It was quite a beautiful sight, mesmerizing in its glory as the power of nature crashed against the fortitude of man.

Aramis felt Porthos step up beside him, but didn’t turn his eyes from the sight of the waves surging against the walls.

“Isn’t this a spectacular view?”

“It’s a wet one.”

Aramis snorted through his nose and shook his head before turning to stare pointedly his friend. “You have no regard for the beauty of nature, Porthos.”

The larger man shrugged. “Perhaps not, but I do have a healthy respect for the force of it.” He tipped his chin toward the wall of the citadel. “That looks like someplace I never want to be.”

Aramis grinned as he returned his gaze to the powerful display of the water clashing against the stone. “Its danger is part of its beauty, my friend.”

“Well I’m content to watch it from here,” Porthos admitted. “Swimmin’ never was something I took to growing up in the court.”

Aramis nodded, knowing his friend’s harsh upbringing in the Court of Miracles had allowed little cause for recreational fun. “I spent many a day splashing in the waters off the coast, but even I would not attempt to tame such a fierce mistress.”

It was Porthos’ turn to snort a laugh. “That may be the first time I ever heard you turn down a mistress.”

Aramis’ smile was sad and he turned his face from his friend in an attempt to hide his melancholy. Ever since he had learned of the Queen’s pregnancy, he’d found himself unable to find joy in the arms of any other woman. It was as if the imminent birth of her child – their child – had tempered the desire that he had found solace in for so long. He fervently wished he could share this new development with Porthos, but knew Athos was right; to impart any hint of his indiscretion would be selfish, placing Porthos’ life in as much jeopardy as Athos’ and his own if anyone should discover their secret. Despite his longing for his friend’s trusted guidance, he could not be the cause of such threat to those he held dear.

He pasted on a grin, tilting his head roguishly. “Angry husbands I can handle. The force of nature may be a bit beyond my skills of diplomacy.”

Before Porthos could respond, a scream came from the other side of the dock and the two Musketeers dropped their gear, dashing to the edge of the wall across the wooden platform.

Athos and d’Artagnan were leaning over the edge, the rest of the Musketeers standing nervously behind.

“What happened?” Porthos asked between quick breaths. “We heard a scream.”

“It was Mordelle,” Athos stated. “I don’t know why he was on the wall, but one minute he was there and the next…” He didn’t have to finish the sentence to convey what had happened to the newly commissioned Musketeer. 

Porthos pushed past and leaned over the wall next to d’Artagnan, his eyes raking the turbulent waters below.

“Did anyone see anythin’?”

d’Artagnan shook his head. “We were stowing the gear in the cart Marquis Foquet provided,” he explained with a shrug. “I thought Mordelle was right behind me. Next thing I know I hear a scream and he’s just gone.” The Gascon waved a hand toward the water, still churning despite the devastating loss.

“Maybe someone should’ve been paying closer attention,” Andrés muttered just loud enough for them all to hear.

“What are you insinuatin’?” Porthos immediately jumped to confront the older soldier, looking down his nose, his eyes narrowed in challenge.

“I’m not insinuating anything,” Andrés retorted, looking around to the others. “I’m just saying the kid wasn’t where he was supposed to be and that someone should’ve noticed and ordered him to get back to his duty.” His dark gaze flickered to Athos, not giving ground even as Porthos took a step closer.

“Porthos,” Aramis cautioned. He didn’t like Andrés’ thinly veiled accusation toward Athos any more than the big Musketeer did, but he knew this was neither the time nor the place to confront the old soldier. He’d served with Andrés long enough to know the man was as stubborn as he was stout. He had never been much of a leader, but he’d been a competent soldier and had served with honor for most of his career. He had no idea what had brought about his discontent, but whatever it was would be best handled with a bit more discretion instead of out on the dock for all to see. 

He stepped up to the wall and looked down into the dark, churning waters. Silt and sand made it impossible to see anything below the surface. He shuddered at what such a tremendous force could do to a human body. Silently crossing himself, he whispered a prayer for Mordelle’s soul, suddenly regretting his avoidance of the younger man. Mordelle’s attention had made him uneasy, but he’d rather endure the discomfort than have the young Musketeer come to such a tragic end. He doubted they would be able to retrieve Mordelle’s body from the turbulent depths of the bay, but knew placing blame would only make a bad situation worse. Mordelle’s loss was a tragedy, but an accidental one. All they could do now was carry on with their mission and make sure no harm came to the King. 

“Finish loading the cart,” Athos ordered, holding Andrés’ stare. La Porte stepped forward and placed a hand on the older man’s shoulder, effectively breaking the stalemate. Andrés finally dropped his gaze and allowed his friend to lead him back toward the pile of gear still sitting on the dock.

As they watched them go, Aramis stepped up beside Athos, his shoulder brushing the other man’s in silent support. 

“He’s going to be a problem.”

Athos grunted in response. He nodded toward the King’s carriage, which had already rolled off the dock and onto the stone paved road. “You and Porthos stay with the King. D’Artagnan and I will inform the Portmaster of Mordelle’s death. We will meet you at Foquet’s estate.”

“Better idea,” Porthos interjected. “You and d’Artagnan go. Aramis and I have a little talkin’ to do.”

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm 

The last of the gear was packed onto the cart and Aramis ordered Deguasse and Bernajoux to escort it to the Marquis chateau. As the others picked up their weapons to follow, Porthos grabbed Andrés by the arm, squeezing to get the man’s attention.

“Whatever problem you ‘ave with Athos, it stops now.”

Andrés shook off the bigger man’s hold and stepped back, eyeing him cautiously. “Treville may have given him command, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

“No,” Aramis conceded, “but you do have to respect it.”

La Porte came up beside Andrés. “I would think you of all people would understand what Andrés is saying.”

Aramis’ brow furrowed in confusion. “Me? I have no problem with Athos’ leadership. Why would I feel otherwise?”

“Because you have been a Musketeer longer than him,” La Porte’s tone belayed his surprise at having to explain. “Both you and Andrés have been with the regiment since it was conceived. Doesn’t it make you angry that Treville has passed you over in order to show his favor to a drunkard?”

Aramis exchanged a look of disbelief with Porthos who growled in response. 

“I have no desire to command,” Aramis responded indignant on his friend’s behalf. “But that is beside the point. How Athos spends his time when not on duty is none of your concern. He has earned the Captain’s – and the King’s – trust and respect. I, for one, would follow him into certain death.”

“Like Mordelle did.”

Porthos shoved Andrés menacingly. “Mordelle fell. It was an accident. Athos had nothin’ to do with it. You start saying otherwise and we’re goin’ to have a problem.”

Andrés snorted a laugh. “The mighty Inseparables. I should’ve known you wouldn’t be able to see past your own self-importance. Mark my words, Mordelle won’t be the last. Athos’ inattention is going to get more men killed.” He turned and made his way toward the cart, La Porte following in his wake.

“That went well,” Aramis sighed.

“He’s got a real chip on his shoulder, eh?”

“So I would seem.”

“What are we goin’ to do?”

Aramis tugged his hat from his head and ran a hand through his unruly curls. “The same thing we always do, dear Porthos. Have each others’ backs.” He dropped the hat back onto his head and nudged the bigger man, pleased to see the tension in his shoulders lessen just a bit. “Come on, let’s report Mordelle’s death to the Portmaster and catch up with the others.”

**tbc**


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

“You all right?” Porthos shifted his pack against his shoulder as he glanced to his left. Aramis had been quiet since they’d reported Mordelle’s death to the Portmaster, and Porthos found himself missing his friend’s constant chatter on the short walk to Foquet’s chateau. 

“I’m fine,” Aramis responded, his lips rising into a soft smile as if he’d been expecting the query. “I simply find it regrettable that a life so young should be lost so needlessly.”

Porthos grunted in agreement. “Just so you know it wasn’t your fault.” 

“I don’t feel responsible for his death,” Aramis assured, “though I must admit I am ashamed of how hard I tried to push him away in the end. He was harmless enough and I regret not trying harder to dissuade him from this life.”

Porthos knew his friend would take Mordelle’s death hard despite – or perhaps because of – the fact he had recently been doing all he could to avoid the younger man due to his strange fixation with the marksman. Despite his obvious pride in his new uniform, it had quickly became apparent Mordelle would never be a competent soldier and Aramis had tried to encourage him to consider other vocations that would better suit his abilities. But Mordelle was determined to stick around, asking Aramis for pointers in everything from shooting a musket to how to correctly wear his pauldron. He had even gone so far as to request his pauldron be made to resemble Aramis’, claiming that the worn leather cuff was the perfect symbol of brotherhood and loyalty. Aramis had taken the compliment – and the resulting mockery – with his usual grace.

When Mordelle’s infatuation with the marksman had begun to border on the obsessive, Aramis had made a point of sticking close to Athos, d’Artagnan or himself, subtly hoping Mordelle would take the hint and find some of the other newer Musketeers to connect with.

When this mission had been brought to their attention, Porthos had joked it was going to be tough for Aramis to move about without his constant shadow. The marksman had taken the ribbing with his usual grace – right up until Athos had informed them that Mordelle had volunteered to be a part of the detail. When asked if it would be a problem, Aramis had assured them it would not, but Porthos could read the disappointment in his friend’s dark eyes.

Now, with Mordelle gone, Porthos knew Aramis well enough to know he would be torn between relief that the cause of his unease was removed, and the guilt of feeling that reprieve.

“He made you uncomfortable, Aramis,” Porthos reminded him. “And that made me uncomfortable. It’s not like you set out to make ‘im feel bad or anything.”

Aramis sighed. “I know. I just wish I had been able to…”

“Talk him out of being a Musketeer?”

The marksman’s shrug was answer enough. 

“He was never goin’ to be a good soldier, ‘Mis,” Porthos repeated the marksman’s sentiment. “Everyone could see that, plain as day. Even Treville.”

“Yet the Captain allowed him on a mission to protect the King.”

“He did volunteer.” It was Porthos’ turn to shrug. “It doesn’t make sense, I know, Maybe the Captain was giving the lad one more chance to show his mettle? Maybe the Captain felt obliged to give the kid a chance.”

“And now he’s dead,” Aramis shook his head. “What a waste.”

“Accidents happen, Aramis. You know that. Death is nothin’ new to soldiers.”

“But like you said, Mordelle wasn’t much of a soldier.” Aramis kicked at a stone, sending it tumbling across the dirt. “I didn’t even know his proper name.”

Porthos racked his brain, only to realize he had never known it either. He sighed, shifting his pack higher and moving closer to bump his shoulder with his friend. “Which isn’t anybody’s fault.” He tilted his chin as they rounded a bend in the road and the Marquis’ chateau came into view. “How about we stop worryin’ about things we can’t change and start thinkin’ about those we can. Like finding somethin’ to eat. I don’t know about you, but that ferry ride made me hungry.”

Aramis snorted a laugh, his eyes lighting up at his friend’s predictable behavior. “Everything makes you hungry. Let’s find our quarters and stow this gear before you swoon from starvation.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

By the time Aramis and Porthos were shown into the main room, Louis and Foquet were already discussing the possibility of the Marquis returning to Paris as the King’s new Minister of Finance. Flattered as he was at the request, Foquet refused to answer, instead attempting to distract the King with detailed drawings of fortifications he had planned for the island. It was obvious the Marquis was reluctant to leave Belle Île, a decision Louis would not readily tolerate and Athos could feel the pit tighten in his stomach as the two danced around the subject, as if avoiding it would change one or the other’s mind.

The new arrivals approached quietly, taking his attention from the taut negotiations across the room.

“This seems to be going well,” Aramis noted, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“I’m afraid the Marquis has little interest in the King’s offer,” Athos informed them.

“That’ll make Louis a joy to be around,” Porthos snorted.

Athos grunted in agreement. “I only pray Foquet will see the folly of his resistance and agree to the King’s request before His Majesty’s patience is at an end.”

“It’s surprising he hasn’t reached it already,” d’Artaganan quipped. Athos gave him a sideways glance, and the younger man simply shrugged innocently in reply.

“Will the Portmaster be able to retrieve Mordelle’s body?” The swordsman caught Porthos’ eyes over Aramis’ bowed head and raised a brow in silent question. Knowing the marksman as he did, it would not surprise him if Aramis felt some remorse over the young Musketeers demise, though he hoped he would not take too much guilt upon himself for the accident.

The bigger man shrugged. “Not likely. He said after that kind of punishment, there’s hardly much left to recover.”

Athos nodded regretfully. “I suspected as much. I informed the King of what happened. He would like Mordell’s uncle to be notified as soon as possible.”

“I would like to write the letter,” Aramis offered. “I feel I owe him that much.”

Athos studied the marksman for a moment. It was his command, therefore his responsibility, but he could see Aramis’ need for redemption – misplaced as it was – and nodded his agreement. Perhaps crafting the words of consolation would be enough to soothe Aramis’ own soul as well.

The two voices from across the room rose in volume and the Musketeers’ attention was drawn to the tense conversation.

“Really, Your Majesty, as I said, I am flattered by your request –” Louis raised an impertinent hand, abruptly cutting Foquet off.

“It is hardly a request, Foquet,” Louis was adamant, unused to having his requests denied. “France is in desperate need of your expertise and you have come highly recommended by Cardinal Richelieu. I will not allow you to turn down this opportunity.”

Surprised by the King’s tone, Foquet fumbled for words as everyone in the room stood tense, awaiting his response.

“It would seem I would be a fool to turn down such an esteemed offer,” the Marquis finally relented, overwhelmed by the King’s obduracy. Athos released a pent up breath, quietly thanking the man for his reluctant capitulation.

“That,” Porthos murmured, “was a welcome surrender.”

The others could only nod in agreement as Louis turned and focused his gaze upon them.

“Good news!” he beamed as if they had not been witness to all that had just happened. “Marquis Foquet as agreed to return to Paris with us.”

Athos wondered whether the King’s glee was because Foquet had agreed to his terms or that he would not have to make the long journey back to Paris alone.

“That is wonderful news, Your Majesty. Shall I arrange for a carriage?”

Louis waved a hand. “Certainly not, Athos. I am sure the Marquis has a few things to take care of before we set out.” He framed it as a question, turning to Foquet for response.

The Marquis bowed his head, his smile forced. It was obvious he was less than pleased with the idea of leaving the island and returning to Paris, but Louis was far too satisfied with himself to notice his new Minister’s reserve. “Yes, Your Majesty. It will take me a few days to get things in order. If you are needed in Paris, I could always follow –”

Louis, ignorant of the man’s reticence concerning his new position, waved a hand, effectively dismissing the notion. “Nonsense, Foquet. We will travel together. After all, we will be working quite closely from now on.”

Despite his reluctance, Foquet was apparently a consummate diplomat. He smiled and bowed formally. “I look forward to it, Your Majesty.” And apparently a very good liar, Athos mused. “In the meantime, my humble estate is at your command.”

Louis nodded, pleased. He turned back to the Musketeers with a wide smile. “There, you see? I’m sure we will all enjoy partaking of the beauty of the island and the Marquis’ hospitality.”

Athos’ smile was as forced as Foquet’s. “Of course, Your Majesty.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

At the King’s bidding, Foquet ordered his servants to prepare a grand feast to celebrate his new position. Though they had been given leave for the day, Athos was not surprised to find Foquet’s Chief Steward waiting for them when they returned to the quarters they had been assigned. The man bowed his head as they approached, running a sharp eye over the four of them as they stopped before their shared rooms.

“Monsieur,” the man narrowed his eyes as he studied the soldiers. “I am Mollier, the Marquis’ Chief Steward.” He stood tall, his posture stiff. His wore an expression of indifference, his dark gaze shifting from one of the Musketeers to the other, narrowing, before finally settling on Athos. “His Majesty has assured my Lord you and your men would assist in bringing the supplies from the docks for the feast.”

It was not an order, yet it was hardly a request, and Athos bristled at the man’s tone.

“Do you not have men to handle such chores?”

Mollier’s countenance remained unaffected. “We are currently understaffed, having not been made aware of the demands of the King beforehand.” He continued, not allowing the Musketeer time to respond. “There are crates being stored in the warehouse by the dock where you arrived. The carts are being prepared, you will find them outside the stable. I will expect the delivery made to the kitchens within the hour.” 

The steward nodded crisply and strode between them, turning at the end of the hallway and disappearing from view.

The four Musketeers stared, wide-eyed, in his wake.

“Pleasant fellow,” Aramis remarked.

“Charming,” d’Atagnan agreed.

“I’ll go,” Pothos offered.

“I thought you were hungry?”

Porthos grinned and slapped Aramis on the back before handing over his satchel. “The faster we get those supplies delivered, the sooner we’ll be able to eat.”

Aramis chuckled in response, unable to find a flaw in his friend’s reasoning.

Athos nodded in thanks. “Take two other men with you.” It was obvious from the scowl on his face he did not like bowing to Mollier’s orders, but had no wish to cause problems in the short time they would be required to remain at the estate.

Porthos turned, motioning to LaPorte and Deguasse who had just exited a room further down the corridor. Quickly explaining their assignment, he waved to his friends and led the other two toward the stables.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

“So we’re laborers now?” LaPorte griped as they waited for the wagon to be loaded. He stood near the horses, holding the reins as Porthos, and two other men carried the crates from the warehouse to the back of the wagon.

Porthos rolled his eyes, hoisting another crate up to Deguasse who stood in the back, arranging them securely for the short trip back to the estate. “We’re whatever the King orders us to be,” he responded, trying not to let his annoyance show. He was still irritated with LaPorte’s show of solidarity with Andres earlier, and not amused with the man’s lack of effort now. “If it’s dockworkers he needs, we’re dockworkers.” He looked up, squinting against the sun to grin at Deguasse. “Besides, it beats mucking out stalls and listenin’ to Serge prattle on about the price of turnips.”

Despite the regiment’s regard for their old cook, he did tend to rant about things unnecessarily.

Degausse chuckled in return. “I’m hoping the Marquis’ cooks can come up with something a little tastier than Serge’s turnip soup.”

Porthos snorted a laugh. “Don’t let that get back to ol’ Serge. He might just make you peel those turnips as punishment.”

The lad mimed his terror at the possibility before breaking into a broad smile. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

“My lips are sealed.”

A loud bang rent the air and the horses jolted, sending Degausse to his knees as the wagon lurched. The young man caught himself on the side of a crate, quickly nodding to Porthos that he was fine. The big Musketeer rushed from behind the wagon in time to see one of the horses rear, kicking its front hooves out in fear. LaPorte, trying to wrestle control, made the mistake of tightening his hold on the reins, stepping directly in front of the spooked animal. As the horse fought the restraint, LaPorte’s boot slipped on the wet dock and he lost his footing, going down just as the horse started to descend back to the ground. 

Porthos could only turn away in horror as the weight of the animal came down on the man’s body, crushing him beneath the trampling hooves. Quickly he made his way around the wagon, grabbing onto the free flowing reins and turning the animal to keep it from treading on LaPorte’s already bleeding form. As soon as he was able to calm the horse, he looked down, swallowing against the bile that rose up in his throat.

The horse’s hooves had done devastating damage. LaPorte’s eyes were fixed upwards, though Porthos knew at a glance they were not seeing the beautiful blue sky or the fluffy white clouds that drifted across it. One side of his head was caved in, blood and grey matter Porthos recognized from many a battle as the man’s brains, leaking from the wound.

He closed his eyes and sighed, opening them as he felt a presence beside him.

Degausse was staring at LaPorte’s body, grimacing at the grievous injury it had sustained.

“Is he…”

“Yeah,” Porthos answered, knowing they needn’t bother checking. “He’s dead.” He looked around, noticing for the first time how all eyes were on them. “We need a tarp,” he called to no one in particular. One of the men who had been helping load the wagon nodded in response, disappearing back into the warehouse. 

“What happened?” Degausse asked, his voice soft as if he were in a trance, His eyes were still locked onto LaPorte’s body, his face pale.

“Somethin’ caused the horses to bolt,” Porthos answered. “Degausse,” he called, “Degausse…” He kept his voice even, attempting to get the young recruit’s attention. Finally the wide eyes shifted toward him. “Check the horses,” Porthos ordered, more to keep the lad busy than in hope he would find anything. “See if you can find anything, a sting, a cut… anything that would make them react like that.”

Degausse nodded and moved out and around, reaching a hand out to slide along the horse’s flank as he made his way back toward the wagon. Another of the workers approached and Porthos handed off the reins to the man just as the first worker returned with a large woven tarp. Together they dragged LaPorte’s body further away from the still agitated horses, laying him on the tarp and carefully wrapping him up.

Once it was done and the body secure, the worker offered to take it to the icehouse for storage until Porthos could report the accident and ascertain how to proceed. Porthos nodded his gratitude and stood, watching as the man and two others hefted the bundle and carried it off.

“Porthos!”

The big Musketeers turned toward Degausse, motioning wildly to him from behind the horses. Quickly he made his way around the wagon, his mind whirling with how to explain to Athos just what had just transpired. As he approached, Degausse waved a hand toward the lower flank of the horse, just beneath the start of its tail.

“Look!” His voice was pitched higher than normal, excited, and Porthos frowned, wondering what could have had such an effect on the man who just moments before had been on the verge of shock. His eyes drifted toward the horse’s rump, widening when he saw what Degausse had found.

There was a narrow furrow, about half a hand length long, across the hide, almost hidden by the animal’s bushy tail.

“That bang just before the horse bolted,” Degausse continued. “It could’ve been a gunshot.”

Porthos brushed his fingers across the groove, the flesh warm and tacky. “It’s recent,” he observed. “But there’s no way of knowin’ if it happened here or at the stables.” He turned and looked around, his eyes scanning the distance for anything out of place. “You didn’t see anythin’? Notice anyone carrying a weapon?”

Degausse shook his head then shrugged. “I wasn’t exactly looking for one. Should we inquire?”

Porthos took in the number of workers on the docks – not to mention the children and women milling about from the nearby village. “No.” He shook his head. The workers on the docks had gone back to their own business, the death no longer holding their interest. Though it seemed harsh, the dock was a busy place and he was certain accidents like this and the one that claimed Mordelle happened with alarming frequency. Though losing two Musketeers in such rapid succession was enough to make anyone paranoid, he would not allow his suspicions to take hold too quickly. “We’ll take it back to Athos,” he decided. It was his command. It was up to him how to proceed. He turned back to Degausse. “Let’s keep this to ourselves for now. I’ll inform Athos of what we found, but if someone did fire at us, we need to try’n find out why before they know we suspect anythin’.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

“Two so called accidents within a few hours of each other? I dare say that’s a bit too convenient for my taste.”

Athos huffed a breath at Aramis’ assessment, agreeing with the marksman wholeheartedly.

“Is it not possible the sound you heard was simply a crate being dropped or some sort of machinery aboard a ship?”

Porthos shook his head, crossing his arms upon his chest. “Not in my opinion. I know a gunshot when I hear one. That wound on the horse’s flank was fresh. It could’ve happened just before we left the stables, but I’d bet my last livre the sound we heard was a musket firing.”

“But you didn’t see anything?” d’Artagnan asked. 

“Like somebody conveniently standing around with a smokin’ musket?” Porthos asked derisively. “No.” He shook his head. “Though we didn’t waste time questioning anybody. Nobody looked suspicious and they went about their business as if there wasn’t anything out of the ordinary except one more dead Musketeer.”

“For anyone to shoot a musket under those conditions would be extraordinary,” Aramis offered, his brow furrowed in thought. “Considering the wind, the distance, the people moving about… it is possible someone was aiming at one of you and simply missed, hitting the horse instead.”

“And accomplishing the same result.”

Athos sighed. “I will inform the King of this latest misfortune. We will treat it as an accident for now, not having enough evidence to make unwarranted accusations.” He looked at each of his companions, his eyes narrowed. “But we will be more diligent from now on. Nobody is to go anywhere alone. I cannot imagine any reason Musketeers would be targeted here on the island, but I would prefer us to be cautious.”

The others nodded in agreement.

“Who’s going to tell Andres?” d’Artagnan voiced the question they had all been avoiding.

“I suppose that task falls to me,” Athos intoned.

“We’ll all go.” Aramis held up a hand to stay any argument from their leader. “I can’t imagine Andres taking this well under the circumstances, but I will not have him twisting this tragedy to suit his own agenda, nor throw blame where it is not warranted. Besides, LaPorte was a brother. Despite his somewhat questionable choice of loyalties, he deserves nothing less than our full support.”

Athos smiled graciously, swayed and humbled by the marksman’s words. “If you insist.”

“We do.”

He reached for his hat and placed it securely upon his head, dipping the brim in gratitude. “I welcome the company.”

tbc


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

The King took the news of LaPorte’s death in stride, but Andres was an entirely different matter. The burly man at first grew silent when informed of his protégé’s death and Aramis found his heart constricting at the soldier’s grief. He knew the pain of losing a brother – of losing twenty – and it was a pain that struck hard and true every time. LaPorte had been the one man in the regiment who had listened to Andres’ grumblings and stood by him despite his less than welcoming nature. 

Aramis could not fathom how he would survive if he were to lose Porthos or Athos or even d’Artagnan now that the young Gascon had made himself a permanent fixture in his life. Loss was no stranger to him, but the loss of one of those three men would surely leave a hole deep inside that would forever remain too vast to be filled. Andres had been part of the regiment almost as long as Aramis himself, but unlike the marksman, the older Musketeer had made few close friends, his temperament and his blatant ambition both barriers to emotional bonding. Aramis could only imagine how hard it would be for Andres to accept his friend’s death and vowed to do whatever possible to help him through it.

Although at the moment, that vow was being sorely tried. Andres’ silence had lasted but a moment before his anger took hold and his grief made him reckless.

“You should’ve sent more men!” Andres berated their temporary commander, something Aramis knew the old soldier would never consider had it been Captain Treville in charge.

Athos didn’t flinch in the face of Andres’ indictment, but Aramis could tell he would not tolerate the man’s insubordination for long.

“Three men were sufficient for the task. It was an unfortunate accident.”

Andres huffed indignantly, but before he could respond, Porthos stepped forward, his gaze dark. “LaPorte knew the risks just like the rest of us. The horse spooked, LaPorte was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.” It wasn’t that Porthos was making light of the situation – Aramis knew his friend would feel the burden for LaPorte’s death as heavily as Athos – but it was not in the big Musketeer to stand by and watch blame doled out unjustly.

“Porthos,” Athos cautioned under his breath.

Andres sneered. “Of course you’d take up for him. You Inseperables,” he spat the word as if it burned his tongue. “You always stick together, right? To hell with the rest of us.”

“That’s enough!” Aramis stepped around Porthos, laying a calming hand on Andres’ shoulder. “Take care in your words, my friend. We are all brothers. We grieve LaPorte’s death as deeply as Mordelle’s.”

Andres shrugged the marksman’s hand away, stepping back, eyeing the three of them with disdain. “As long as it isn’t one of you, eh?” He narrowed his eyes at Aramis. “Just how would you feel about that?”

Aramis swallowed hard and looked away, Andres’ question much too close to his own torturous thoughts.

“I understand your anger,” Athos interceded. His voice was even, his blue eyes hard, and anyone who didn’t know him well would think him unaffected by the tragedy of losing another of their own. But Aramis knew better. His flat tone spoke volumes as to how their temporary commander was dealing with the loss. “But this is neither the time nor the place to discuss it.” He turned to the other Musketeers assembled in the courtyard near the stables. “There have been two accidents costing far too much. There will not be another. We will remain vigilant. No one is to go anywhere alone while we remain on the island.”

The men all nodded, grumbling their agreement. He returned his attention to Andres. The older Musketeer was still angry, but was too good a soldier to allow his personal pain continue to interfere with his duty. 

“Andres, you and Brisemont will patrol the grounds. Remain on your guard.” 

Brisemont, understanding the role he’d been assigned, nodded quickly to Athos and with an encouraging hand on Andres’ arm, persuaded the seasoned soldier to follow him toward the gardens. Once the pair had disappeared from view, the others heaved a collective sigh of relief.

“He ‘ad no right to speak to you like that,” Porthos grumbled, his face still dark with anger.

“No,” Athos agreed. “But there are more important matters than one man’s misplaced anger. I will deal with him later”

Porthos took a deep breath through his nose, the tension in his shoulders receding as the air whooshed from his pursed lips. After a moment he nodded, his gaze dropping to the ground. Aramis stepped back around his friend, patting him on the back as he passed. Porthos managed a sheepish smile.

Athos’ shoulders sagged in time with Porthos’, and Aramis could see how draining this was on the swordsman. He smiled in approval as d’Artagnan stepped closer to their leader, bumping his shoulder, a silent, reassuring nod speaking more than words possibly could. Despite his outward show of confidence, Aramis knew Athos was blaming himself for the deaths of the two men – though he could see no way he could have prevented either – and Andres’ accusations would only cause dissention where unanimity was needed. 

He hoped for the sake of all involved, that Athos’ fortitude could outlast Andres’ impertinence.

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

The Marquis’ had ordered his staff to prepare a feast fit for a King. The table overflowed with roasted meats, succulent fruits and spiced dishes, filling the room with a tantalizing aroma. Athos and d’Artagnan stood at the door directly behind the King, while Porthos and Aramis had been stationed further down the room. The enticing smells wafting through the air were enough to make Aramis’ mouth water and he silently applauded Athos’ strategy of placing Porthos as far from the table as possible. 

“This is torture,” Porthos grumbled under his breath. “How much longer can this last?” 

Aramis, having been forced to listen – and ignore – the growling of his friend’s stomach for the past two hours, grinned, knowing the man had to be in agony under the circumstances. 

“The King seems to be enjoying himself immensely,” he whispered, not even attempting to hide the amusement in his voice. “I’m sure they have much more to discuss, not to mention many more delicacies to savor before finding their fill.”

Porthos grunted his dismay. “If they savor much more, I’m fairly sure we’ll have to get a bigger coach to get ‘em both back to Paris.”

Aramis chuckled, his grin suddenly turning into a frown as he looked across the room, noting that Degausse stood at his station alone.

“Where’s Bernajoux?” he whispered to Porthos, dragging the larger man’s attention from the tantalizing aromas that wafted down from the head table.

Porthos grunted, his eyes raking the room. “No idea. But Athos is not goin’ to be happy if he notices.”

Aramis leaned forward and chanced a glance around his friend. “He seems to be focused on the King for now.” He leaned back, his eyes catching Degausse’s across the room. He raised his brow in question and the young recruit simply shrugged and tilted his head toward the door behind him.

Aramis sighed, clenching his fists in frustration. With all that had gone wrong on this mission so far, the last thing they needed was Bernajoux’s lack of self-discipline to raise its ugly head.

“Perhaps I can find him and force him to return to his post before Athos realizes he’s gone.”

“And what will you do when Athos realizes you’re gone?”

“Explain how I was simply following his orders that no one of us was to go anywhere alone,” he rationalized. “I’m sure Bernajoux has a perfectly good reason for his absence.”

Porthos grunted again, this time in amusement. “I’m sure he does. And I’ll lay odds that reason is wearin’ a dress and has a pretty smile.”

Aramis grinned. “A worthy quest in my book, but I doubt our illustrious leader would agree.”

Porthos gave him a low rumble of agreement. “Just be quick about it,” the big man cautioned. 

“You’ll hardly have time to miss me.” Aramis chuckled. He took a deep breath through his nose, smiling at the luscious scent of roast duck permeating the room. “Do try not to drool too much.”

Porthos rolled his eyes. “Just go.” He shifted so his body was more at an angle, effectively shielding the smaller man from the front of the room. Aramis patted his friend on a broad shoulder, then slipped through the entrance behind him.

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm 

It didn’t take him long to find his way through the looping corridors surrounding the dining hall. At the end of a long passage, he found himself standing next to an archway leading to what looked like a kitchen staging area directly opposite an open doorway leading outside. Inside the small area, maids and cooks were busy filling plates with pastries and small, elaborately decorated cakes. Aramis’ stomach rumbled in response to the sweet aroma of almond and honey floating through the air. He smiled, realizing it was a good thing he had been the one to search for Bernajoux. If Porthos had stumbled upon this wealth of treats, it was doubtful the big man could’ve resisted temptation.

As he turned toward the door leading out into the night, a voice rang out, loud and accusing.

“You there! Musketeer! You’ve got no business here.”

Aramis forced himself not to cringe at the sharp tone, knowing he had every right to be here in deference to his position in Louis’ personal guard. Instead, he pasted his most charming smile on his lips and bowed to the plump, gray haired woman who approached from the kitchen.

“Forgive me, Madame. I am merely seeking one of my brothers. I did not mean to disrupt your duties.”

The woman narrowed her eyes, placing the hand not holding the sharp knife on her ample hip.

“You Musketeers think you can do whatever you please,” she accused.

Aramis was taken aback by her wrath. “If I have offended you in any way, Madame, I assure you –“

“You offend me by sneakin’ off with my girls like they’re here for your pleasure.”

“Madame?” Aramis made an effort not to roll his eyes, wondering what Bernajoux had done to bring down this woman’s wrath on them all so harshly.

“That other one,” she waved the hand holding the knife toward the door behind him and Aramis stepped back, eyeing the sharp utensil warily. “The one with the yellow hair. He’s been sniffin’ around here all night. Finally chased ‘im off, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he managed to talk one of them fool girls into sliding out back with ‘im.” She stepped closer, brandishing the knife like an extension of her hand. “You tell ‘im these girls ain’t here for ‘is pleasure. They’ve got work to do and I won’t stand for some peacock comin’ in and foolin’ with ‘em.”

Aramis sighed, wondering if this is what Athos and Porthos felt like cleaning up after him. “I give you my word, Madame, I will make sure nothing untoward happens with your charges.” He dipped his head assuringly.

The bossy woman stared at him a moment before abruptly nodding. Without another word she strode back through the door at the far end of the room and Aramis felt his breath rush from his lungs.

He’d been in many battles, faced many an armed foe, but could not recall being quite so relieved to have survived unscathed.

With a rueful grin and a shake of his head, he made his way outside. A half-moon glowed in the cloudless sky, casting a silvery sheen across the grounds directly behind the kitchens, and Aramis stopped just beyond the building, allowing his eyes to adjust in the dim light. There were no sounds other than the muffled clanking beyond the thick walls behind him and the soft rustle of the trees before him, their leaves shifting in the slight breeze at the edge of the gardens. As his sight adapted to the night, he was able to pick out the statues and various ornaments dotted amongst the landscaping. A tall, sturdy, bricked well stood directly behind the kitchen, a thin ribbon of light from the doorway cutting across the stone path to its edge.

Aramis stepped forward, his eyes narrowing as he stared at the sharp strip of light, noting the strange angle it took just before reaching the base of the well. As he drew closer, he realized with increasing alarm, the ripple was caused not by a rock or fallen brick, but by a dark boot sticking out from behind the well. Rushing forward, he fell to his knees, quickly recognizing Bernajoux’ blonde hair in the scant moonlight. 

The Musketeer lay partially on his side, his face pressed against the cold brick, his arm twisted behind him. Aramis tore his glove from his hand, holding his breath as he placed his fingers against the man’s throat. He drew his hand back sharply when his fingers met with warm slick blood.

Quickly rolling Bernajoux onto his back, Aramis removed his hat and lay his head against the man’s chest, squeezing his eyes in remorse when his prayers were met with nothing but silence. Falling back on his haunches, his shoulders sagged as he looked up at the man’s face, a fire building in his belly at the line of dark blood still glistening across his neck. 

This could not be construed as an accident. His throat had been cut. He had been murdered.

Aramis crossed himself, whispering a prayer as he reached up and gently closed the open eyes, knowing the sight of the moon was wasted on the Musketeer now. He took in a deep breath, anger swelling in him as he pushed up. He didn’t want to leave Bernajoux like this, but he knew he needed to let Athos know what had happened. It was obvious now someone here on Belle Île was targeting them – who or why remained unknown – but the others needed to know before anyone else was hurt.

Unfortunately, his grief and anger had left him momentarily vulnerable, and he didn’t hear the approaching footsteps until it was far too late.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Athos growled low in his throat and d’Artagnan’s brows rose at the sound.

“What?” the Gascon whispered, throwing a sideways glance toward his companion. 

They were positioned near the table at the main entrance to the hall, directly behind the King. Louis was engaged in telling Marquis Foquet a rather fictional accounting of how he was able to apprehend his former Finance Minister, Colbert, and, as usual, was paying little attention to the Musketeers standing guard. D’Artagnan inched forward a bit so he was able to see around the older man, frowning when he noticed only one guard – Degausse – standing at attention across the room at the door at the far end.

“Where’s Bernajoux?” he wondered aloud.

“A better question would be where is Aramis?” Athos had the disarming ability to speak quite clearly while barely moving his lips; a talent that, d’Artagnan noted, was quite handy when standing at parade for long, relentless hours. 

Slowly he leaned further out, glancing down along the wall, catching Porthos’ eye as the big man smiled innocently back at him.

“Perhaps he’s behind Porthos?” he offered. “It’s not like we can see around him.”

Athos breathed out through his nose, a sound d’Artagnan had come to associate with his patience being tested. 

“Aramis is not that slight,” the swordsman responded, his voice tight. “And Porthos only ever stands at an angle when he’s covering for someone.”

D’Artagnan rolled his lips under to hide his smile. “Then perhaps Aramis left to find Bernajoux before you noticed he’d left his post.” He tilted his head as he realized it was probably exactly what had happened. Aramis was much too good a soldier – and loyal to Athos – to shirk his responsibility. He was also a born peacemaker and would do whatever necessary to keep one of his brothers from harm – even personally risk Athos’ wrath to spare another from it.

“That is most likely,” Athos admitted. “Although I would hope he would have brains enough to be quick about it.”

“I could go find them?” d’Artagnan framed it as a question, not knowing how the suggestion would be received. He didn’t want to add to Athos’ frustration, but he didn’t want him angry with Aramis either. After Andres’ insinuations concerning Athos’ leadership following Mordelle’s and LaPorte’s accidents, d’Artagnan couldn’t fault the marksman for doing whatever he could to keep the remaining men in line. He didn’t think anyone was taking Andres’ grumblings seriously at the moment, but any more misfortune and he knew the older Musketeer would have ample ammunition to sway at least some of the soldiers his way. Although his, Aramis’ and Porthos’ loyalty to Athos was unshakeable, if the swordsman was to lose the trust of the others, it would make for a difficult situation, especially since they were directly under the eyes of the King.

“Go,” Athos finally relented. “Find them and tell them they are both relieved and to meet me back in our rooms. I will deal with them then.”

D’Artagnan nodded, swallowing hard at the barely repressed anger he could hear in his mentor’s voice.

Without another word, he quietly stepped back, careful to keep his boots from scraping along the floor and disappeared from view.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

D’Artagnan dodged the servants dashing back and forth in the large kitchen, wiping his brow as the heat from the massive stone ovens blanketed the room. He’d failed to find Aramis or Bernajoux in the hallways surrounding the dining hall and had decided to make his way outside to see if either of the missing men had ventured into the gardens. He’d inquired of his companions’ whereabouts to some of the servants, but the plump older woman who seemed to be in charge of the kitchen had summarily dismissed him with a pointed look and the young Musketeer had quickly found his way to the door without waiting for answers.

Outside, he took a deep breath, relishing the cool, salty air that flowed through his nose. A shiver shook his frame, the chill of the breeze catching the damp sweat on the back of his neck. As he raised a hand to wipe beneath the collar of his doublet, movement from near the well caught his attention and he squinted into the scant moonlit night.

“Who’s there?” he called, lowering his arm and gripping the hilt of his sword.

A shadowy figure stood on the far side of the well, his shape no more than a smudge in the darkness. He was bent over something, but straightened at the sound of d’Artagnan’s voice, quickly dashing off, lost in the night.

About to give chase, d’Artagnan glanced toward the ground near the base of the well, noting another dark shape lying still on the ground, mostly hidden by the bulk of the well wall. As he approached cautiously, the shape took form and d’Artagnan quickened his pace as he recognized two pairs of leather boots. 

As he rounded the well, d’Artagnan gasped at the sight of Bernajoux lying on his back, his eyes reflecting the moonlight, a black pool of blood staining his neck. Beside Bernajoux, Aramis lay still, propped on his side, one hand splayed across Bernajoux’ unmoving torso.

He dropped behind Aramis, slowly rolling the Musketeer onto his back, mirroring the body lying beside him.

“Aramis?” d’Artagnan’s voice was hushed, but pitched high in fear. “Aramis? Can you hear me?”

He placed a hand on the marksman’s cheek, thankful the skin below was still warm. The touch brought forth a low moan and d’Artagnan heaved a sigh of relief as Aramis’ brow scrunched up in pain.

“Aramis?” he repeated. “Come on, come back.”

‘D’artn’n?” the wounded man mumbled, blinking his eyes open and squinting up at his friend as if even the low light of the moon was too bright.

“Yes, it’s me.” The younger man leaned back, pulling his friend up by his shoulder. Once he was sure Aramis was stable enough to remain sitting, he scooted around him and placed a hand on Bernajoux’ unmoving chest.

“He’s dead,” Aramis informed him. “I found him…” the pause caused d’Artagnan to quickly return his attention to the marksman, only to see Aramis shrug wearily, “… I have no idea how long ago.”

D’Artagnan sighed and shifted back to Aramis’ side.

“What happened?”

Aramis gingerly pressed a hand to the back of his head. He shook it carefully, managing another shrug. “I noticed he was no longer at his post and wanted to avoid any more… problems for Athos to deal with. I went to find him and…” he waved a hand at the body beside him. “I found him like this.”

“Did you see who hit you?”

The marksman shook his head again and sighed. “No. I was intent on offering up a prayer for Bernajoux’ soul and I fear I left myself vulnerable a moment too long.”

D’Artagnan smiled and squeezed his friend’s shoulder. “I saw someone – a man – but it was too dark and he was too far away to recognize.”

Aramis’ brows rose as he glanced up at the younger man. “So it would seem someone does harbor bad tidings where we are concerned. The two ‘accidents’ that befell our brothers may be more than they seem.”

D’Artagnan huffed in agreement. “Any other time I would say that sounds a bit oversuspicious, but…” He tilted his head, his brows rising in agreement.

Aramis held out a hand and d’Artagnan dutifully pulled him to his feet, holding tightly to his arm until he regained his equilibrium.

“Don’t get me wrong,” the marksman eyed him warily as the Gascon released him, “I truly appreciate your well-timed interruption, but what are you doing out here?”

“Athos sent me.”

Aramis’ head dropped and d’Artagnan returned his grip to the Marksman’s arm, fearing his head wound was more serious than previously thought.

“Aramis?”

The marksman took a deep breath, but waved away the younger man’s concern. “I’m all right.” He reached his free hand behind his head, wincing as he probed at the tender flesh beneath the damp curls.

Knowing his friend would proclaim he was fine no matter what the circumstance, d’Artagnan leaned forward, pushing Aramis head further forward and running his own fingers through the dark strands.

“That’s one hell of a bump.” D’Artagnan commiserated. “Bet it hurts.”

Aramis smiled, his eyes closed, allowing the younger Musketeer to examine the wound. “I’ve had worse.” He opened his eyes and treated d’Artagnan to a rueful grin. “And the pain will no doubt pale in comparison to whatever Athos will impose.”

D’Artagnan returned the grin. “He was a bit annoyed.”

“Splendid.” Aramis shifted and took a long look at Bernajoux’ body lying at their feet. When he returned his gaze to d’Artagnan, the young man could see the distress in his dark eyes. Aramis gave him a resolute smile and patted him on the arm. “Let us report this. Athos needs to know the threat is indeed real.”

tbc


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Athos bowed to the King as the door closed on his chambers and turned on his heel, striding past Porthos without a word. Porthos tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling in frustrated silence, easily recognizing the anger simmering in the swordsman’s blue eyes. Athos had brusquely dismissed Degausse as soon as the King had indicated he was ready to return to his rooms, leaving only himself and Porthos to accompany Louis through the halls of the chateau. If the monarch noticed his reduced guard, he didn’t comment, but perhaps it was the coldness of Athos’ eyes that stayed his tongue. Porthos sighed and shook his head, quickly catching up to his irate friend as they made their way to the wing of the chateau where they’d been assigned quarters. 

Porthos did understand Athos’ anger – at Bernajoux for leaving his post and at Aramis for seemingly committing the same crime. He considered explaining that Aramis had simply been attempting to rein the errant Musketeer in; trying to make things easier for Athos as they always did, but he doubted swordsman would listen. He was past the point of being pacified by reason, his ire at the insubordination showing in the tight lines of his face.

As Athos threw open the door to Aramis’ and Porthos’ shared room, Porthos could only follow him in, closing the door with a soft click behind them to muffle the dressing down he was certain their commander was about to unleash. He stood with his back to the wood, his brow creasing in sudden concern as he took in the other two men in the room.

Aramis sat at the table near the fireplace, his body hunched over, one arm braced against his thigh, the other holding a cloth to the back of his head. He didn’t look up as the door crashed open, but Porthos could read the tension in his shoulders easily enough. Crouched before him, one elbow on the table, d’Artagnan jumped at the intrusion, his eyes quickly assessing Athos’ mood. He jumped to his feet, placing himself protectively in front of Aramis’ slumped form as Athos stomped across the room. Despite Athos obvious intent, the younger man stood his ground, holding out an arm to thwart the swordsman’s progress. Athos, obviously surprised at the interference, pulled up abruptly.

“Out of my way,” Athos ordered, his voice low. Porthos couldn’t see his face, but from the mix of determination and apprehension on d’Artagnan’s, he assumed the heat in Athos’ eyes would melt metal. It was a wonder the young Gascon hadn’t been set ablaze on the spot.

“Athos,” d’Artagnan warned, “you don’t understand.”

Athos refused to be placated. “I understand that two of my men disobeyed a direct order! That one of the men I trust most in this world decided to abandon his post while guarding the King. I could handle this kind of insubordination from the others, from Andres or even Bernajoux, but not from Aramis!”

“Bernajoux is dead.”

Athos stopped cold at Aramis’ soft voice and Porthos’ breath caught in his throat.

“What?” 

“How?”

d’Artagnan stepped aside as Aramis slowly rose to his feet. His hand hovered behind Aramis’ back, quickly offering support when the injured man swayed. Porthos immediately pushed off the door and strode across the room, eyeing his friend critically, noting the tell-tale signs of pain in the pinched skin at the corners of his eyes.

“’Mis?”

Aramis looked up, smiling weakly. “I’m all right.”

D’Artagnan huffed his opinion on the matter. “He was unconscious when I found him,” he reported, ignoring Aramis’ narrowed glance of betrayal. “Out back by the well. He was lying next to Bernajoux’ body.”

Athos ire thawed, his shoulders sagging at the news of another brother lost.

“What happened?”

When Aramis swayed again, it was Athos who reached out a steadying hand, carefully guiding the marksman back down to the chair. A smile of gratitude flickered across Aramis’ lips.

“What happened?” Athos repeated, his voice soft, all traces of anger gone.

Aramis took a deep breath. “I noticed Bernajoux was not at his post. Degausse obviously had no idea where he’d gone off to. Porthos and I feared he’d found some sort of… distraction.”

“Bernajoux wouldn’t leave his post for that,” d’Artagnan interjected. “No more than you –“ he stopped abruptly, his eyes apologetic for what he’d been about to say.

“It’s all right, d’Artagnan,” Aramis appeased. “My reputation is hardly undeserved.”

“Why was Bernajoux outside?” Athos asked, bringing the conversation back on track.

Aramis shrugged. “I have no idea. I could find no sign of him in the kitchens and the woman in charge bade me to keep him away from her young charges. I assumed she had seen something, so I stepped outside, half expecting to find him in the arms of an impressionable young lady.”

“But you didn’t,” Porthos prompted when Aramis paused. The marksman shook his head with a wince, rubbing a hand along the back of his neck.

“No. Instead I found him near the well, dead.”

“Another accident?” Athos asked, his tone punctuating his skepticism.

Aramis shook his head again, slower, his expression grave. “Not unless he accidentally slit his own throat.” His eyes hardened at the memory. “Bernajoux was murdered.”

Athos closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing audibly.

“When I approached the well, I saw a man standing over them,” d’Artagnan took up the narrative. “He ran off when I called out. I was about to give chase when I recognized the two bodies laying on the ground.” He placed a hand on Aramis’ shoulder when the marksman shuddered at the description. “Bernajoux was dead,” the young Gascon continued. “But thankfully Aramis was simply unconscious. I know I should’ve gone after the assailant, but…” he shrugged, smiling at his injured friend. “I felt my presence would be more valued where I was.”

Aramis patted the hand on his shoulder. “Your presence was indeed appreciated, my friend.”

“This man,” Athos inquired. “Did you recognize him?”

D’Artagnan shook his head apologetically. “He was nothing more than a shadow as my eyes had yet to adjust to the darkness outside the chateau. He took off toward the stables, but I wasn’t able to get a good look at him.”

“How did he move?” Porthos questioned. “Was he stiff? Smooth? Could you tell if he was young or old?”

D’Artagnan thought for a moment, his eyes losing focus as he tried to recall the figure in more detail. “Young, I think. He moved fluently. If he was of advanced age, he was unhampered by it.”

Athos nodded. “So we are looking for a fit, possibly young man who knows his way around the grounds well enough to be able to move with ease despite the darkness of night.” Athos rubbed at his neck. “I fear there will be no shortage of men who fit that description. I will inquire of the Marquis’ Chief Steward in the morning. See if there were any workers unaccounted for this evening.” He turned his attention to Aramis, who was gingerly pressing against the back of his head. “Will you be all right? Should we summon a physician?”

Aramis dropped his hand and shook his head. “No. Just a headache. No more than I deserve.”

Porthos noticed the remorse on his friend’s face. “You just said Bernajoux was already dead when you found him, ‘Mis. There was nothing you could’ve done.”

Aramis’ smile was a sad, tragic thing. “I know. But it still pains me to know another brother is lost to us.”

Porthos shared his pain, but it was tempered by the fact Aramis was alive and whole and sitting in front of them.

“Regardless, we can now assume someone is targeting Musketeers.” Athos pulled his hat from his head and let it drop onto the table. “We shall send someone for Bernajoux’ body. Tomorrow we will revisit both Mordelle’s accident as well as LaPorte’s. I am sure once the King is made aware, he will want us to find everything we can that could tie these deaths together. ” The other three nodded their agreement. 

Porthos looked around, sniffing the air. “We were told there would be food delivered to our rooms.”

D’Artagnan waved a hand toward the opening that connected the room they were in with the one he and Athos shared next door. “There was. I moved it into the other room. The smell was making Aramis nauseous.”

Porthos’ stomach grumbled and he took a heady sniff, the aroma of roasted quail finally registering on his senses. 

“The smell is obviously having the opposite effect on you, my friend,” Aramis chuckled. “Go. Eat. You’ve been quite patient.”

Porthos started to move, but stopped, turning back to the injured man. “What about you? You really should eat, too.”

Aramis swallowed thickly and rubbed at his stomach, his face paling at the thought. “I’m afraid that would not be wise at the moment. But I do not expect your stomach will allow you to wait any longer. Please. Go.”

Porthos hesitated, not wanting to leave his friend, but when his stomach growled again, Aramis smiled and flicked a hand at him as if trying to push him toward the other room. With an apologetic grin, Porthos did as he was told.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Taking a seat at the table, Porthos didn’t immediately reach for the trays overflowing with food, guilt tempering his appetite. He felt bad, knowing Aramis was in the other room in pain, unable to partake, and his stomach clenched in sympathy. D’Artagnan clapped him on the shoulder as he rounded the table and took a seat next to him.

“Aramis will be fine,” the Gascon accurately surmised the reason for the big man’s hesitation. “And he did all but order you in here.”

Porthos chuckled, bobbing his head in agreement. “Yeah, he did, didn’t he?”

D’Artagnan returned his grin. “So eat. It would be a shame to allow all this to go to waste.”

Athos had remained in the other room with Aramis, no doubt as an apology for his earlier anger and to glean details of what had happened by the well. While the marksman was guilty of the dereliction Athos had accused him of, his motives were honorable and Porthos knew the transgression would be forgotten quickly under the circumstances. Athos’ fury would be redirected toward finding whoever was responsible for the death of three of their own – an offense Porthos swore would not go unpunished.

There was little they could do about it right now; Athos would send someone to secure Bernajoux’ body and they would inform the King and the Marquis in the morning. Once the sun was up they could take a closer look at the area where he was killed as well as revisit the other two deaths. Perhaps they could find something amiss, but Porthos wasn’t holding out much hope. There was little to indicate Mordelle’s death was anything other than a tragic accident. LaPorte’s demise was more suspicious, but despite the graze they’d found on the horses, there was no way to prove it was deliberate or had happened as they believed. That the two deaths were more than accidents would be difficult to prove, but Porthos did not believe in coincidence and Bernajoux’ death was malicious and deliberate.

At a nudge from d’Artagnan, Porthos filled his plate, taking a still warm quail breast and raising it to his mouth. Before he could take a bite, a crash sounded in the hallway, just outside the door. He exchanged a look of confusion with d’Artagnan and they both pushed their chairs back from the table, reaching the door just as Athos and Aramis appeared in the opening separating the two rooms.

Porthos yanked the door open, shocked to find Deguasse writhing on the scuffed wooden floor just outside.

The young man had one hand around his neck, his face a ghastly gray. His eyes were wide, mouth open, a sickening white substance running down his cheek and chin. The hand not clutching at his throat pawed in the air, reaching for Porthos who immediately dropped down beside him.

“Aramis!” Porthos called over his shoulder, moving aside as the marksman pushed through the threshold of the doorway.

“He can’t breathe,” Aramis concluded quickly. “Roll him onto his side.”

Porthos complied, settling back on his haunches as Aramis slapped forcefully at the young man’s back. Degaussed coughed weakly, unable to force any more air from his lungs than he could draw in.

Suddenly the recruit’s body seized, stiffening before shaking uncontrollably, his eyes rolling back into his head.

“No, no no…” Aramis mumbled, quickly pushing him onto his back, pressing down on his shoulders as the convulsions caused his head to slam back against the unforgiving wooden floor. It was over in a moment, Deguasse’s body contorting one final time before going pliant, his arms dropping, his head lolling as he stilled. 

Aramis leaned over him, his ear to the young man’s mouth, one hand cushioning his head, the other perched on the unmoving chest. The slump of the marksman’s shoulders told the others all they needed to know.

Aramis sat back on his heels, his face a mask of pain and distress, his hand shaking as he reached out and gently closed Degausse’s unseeing eyes.

“What the hell was that?” Porthos breathed, his eyes trained on the body lying before him. “He was fine not half an hour ago.”

Aramis ran a hand down his face, the other reverently grasping Deguasse’s disheveled shirt, drawing the material down where it had bunched up across his stomach. His eyes were squeezed tight and Porthos couldn’t decide if it was the pain from his head or his heart that was causing the man to look so pale.

“’Mis?”

Aramis took a deep breath through his nose and shook his head. “I don’t –.” He frowned, his eyes opening suddenly as he leaned over Deguasse’s body, close to the dead man’s open mouth.

“Aramis?” This time it was Athos inquiring, his face a mixture of concern and confusion.

“Do you smell that?”

They each sniffed the air in unison. Porthos shook his head. He twisted to glance back at the others who still stood behind him, framed in the open doorway. They shrugged at his silent question, exchanging a look of bewilderment between them.

“I don’t smell anything,” d’Artagnan announced, his words strung out as if he knew he was missing something crucial.

“Nor I,” Athos agreed. He focused on Aramis who was pulling open the vacant eyes he had pressed shut only moments before. “Aramis,” he called gently. “What do you suspect?”

Though he wasn’t a physician, they had relied on Aramis’ medical expertise many times. The marksman was adept at setting bones and stitching up battle wounds, his steady hands and attention to detail making his needlework quite impressive. There was no wound to sew and no bones to mend, but Porthos would trust any diagnosis his friend made without question.

“He was poisoned.” Aramis voice was soft, yet Porthos could hear the steel of rage bubbling in its depths. When he looked up, his eyes were dark with fury. “He was just a boy.”

“Poisoned?” Athos rumbled, his own anger showing in the set lines of his face. “How?”

Aramis shook his head, his eyes traveling back down to the rapidly cooling body. “I don’t –” He took another sniff, his body stiffening, his brow furrowing.

Suddenly Aramis pushed up from the floor, launching himself down the narrow hallway. He flung open the door to the room Deguasse shared with Brisemont and disappeared inside. The others, momentarily startled by his sudden departure, nearly tripped over each other as they quickly followed. As they entered the room, they stopped and watched as Aramis hovered over the table, leaning down and sniffing the food Deguasse had obviously already begun to consume. Shaking his head and mumbling to himself, he reached for a decanter of wine, pulling it close enough to his face to take a heady sniff. 

His eyes glazed as he took a small sip from Deguasse’s cup, concentrating on the taste, only to spit the liquid out almost immediately.

“Aramis,” Porthos called from his position in the doorway, hesitant to disturb whatever madness had taken possession of their friend. “Please. Talk to us. What do you suspect?”

Aramis shoulders slumped and he squeezed his eyes shut, a hand going back to press against the back of his head. A moment later he turned and threw the decanter against the far wall in a fit of rage.

“The smell… coming from Degausse,” he whispered in response. His eyes opened but remained unfocused and Porthos wasn’t sure if he was answering the question or simply muttering to himself. “Poudre de succession.”

“Inheritance powder?” d’Artagnan repeated, giving the others a shrug.

“White arsenic,” Aramis raised his head, his eyes focusing on them, once again in control of his emotions. “It is mostly undetectable, though in very high quantities it gives off a slight aroma of garlic.” He motioned to the decanter lying shattered against the far wall. “It was in the wine. Deguasse was deliberately poisoned.”

They were silent for a moment, each of them trying to process what their friend had announced.

“Why Deguasse?” d’Artagnan finally broke the spell. He was standing just behind Athos, still out in the hall. His hands were tucked up beneath his arms, his gaze trained on the body, visibly shaken by the death of the young recruit. Deguasse had only been a year younger than the Gascon. “Why Mordelle? Or LaPorte, or Bernajoux? I mean why any of us? We have no ties to anyone here on the island.”

Porthos grunted in agreement. “And if it’s the King they mean to harm, why kill us off one-by-one instead of going for him directly? Seems quite a lot of risk just to make him more accessible.”

“All good questions,” Athos responded. “And I believe we need to find the answers sooner rather than later. This will no longer wait until morning. Four men are dead. Two we know killed deliberately, two others I suspect will prove to be more than accidents. I will speak with the Marquis at once. No one will eat or drink anything until we are assured it is safe to do so.” 

Porthos barely contained his groan of disappointment.

“D’Artagnan will come with me. Porthos and Aramis will remain here. Move Degausse back to his bed and await Andres and Brisemont, inform them of what has happened. Do not, by any means, allow anyone to leave here alone.”

Porthos and Aramis nodded their understanding, stepping aside as their commander briskly led a quiet d’Artagnan down the hall.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Porthos watched as Aramis straightened the sheet they’d lain over Degausse’s body, bowing his head as his friend kneeled to say a prayer over the fallen lad. The Latin fell from his lips in a whisper, and although Porthos didn’t understand a word of it, he held himself silent, reverently listening to the cadence of his friend’s voice.

With a final pat to the slain recruit, they made their way back to their room, leaving the door open in order to hear when Andres and Brisemont returned from their patrol. Aramis disappeared momentarily into the adjoining room, returning with a plate of food that he placed on the table near Porthos.

“What’s this?” Porthos inquired, his stomach rumbling as the aroma of the roast quail assaulted his senses. He swallowed, almost able to taste the meat on his tongue. “Athos said –“

“I know what Athos said,” Aramis interrupted, a knowing smile on his face. “But I only detected the arsenic in the wine, and I can sense no odor of it on this. You’ve been deprived quite long enough, my friend. I assure you it’s safe.”

Porthos eyed him for a long moment, finally relenting, reaching for the plate. He trusted Aramis with his life. If the man said the food was safe, he had no cause to doubt him.

Footsteps in the hall outside echoed and Porthos sighed, reluctantly replacing the plate of cooling food back onto the dusty tabletop. Aramis smirked as he made his way to the door, ignoring the bigger man’s expression of dismay.

Brisemont had his hand on the latch of the door leading into the room he’d shared with Deguasse when Aramis’ call beckoned him to join them.

Andres, about to enter his own room, turned at the summons, curiosity no doubt making him follow. Aramis motioned them into the room then strode past them to Porthos’ side. They exchanged a quick look of apprehension, knowing the news they were about to impart would be met with a myriad of emotions from anguish and despair to outright anger.

“Bernajoux and Degausse are both dead,” Aramis went right for the punch, knowing the soldiers would handle it better if the facts were presented quickly and cleanly. “They were murdered,” he continued before either of the new arrivals could utter a word. “I found Bernajoux outside by the well; his throat had been cut.” His voice cracked and he dropped his head, the words bringing the memory back full force.

Porthos stepped closer, brushing his shoulder to the marksman’s in support. “Degausse was poisoned,” he picked up the story. “Aramis suspects it was arsenic in the wine. So if you find any in your room, don’t drink or eat anything unless you check with ‘im first.”

“And just where is Athos while our men are being slaughtered?” 

Porthos bristled at Andres’ tone, taking a deep breath to calm himself when Aramis’ shoulder nudged his own.

“Athos went to see to Bernajoux’ body and report the incidents directly to the Marquis,” Aramis informed him. From the cold calm of his voice, it was apparent he did not appreciate Andres’ thinly veiled insinuation any more than Porthos. “We are to stay here and await his return.”

“Wait?” Andres huffed, indignant. “To be murdered in our sleep?”

Aramis flinched at the words and Porthos stepped forward, his shoulders squared, eyes narrowed, his patience at an end. “Athos is in command. His orders are to remain here. You have a problem with that?” The older Musketeer’s constant attempts to undermine Athos’ authority had to stop.

Obviously Brisemont felt the same. “No,” he said forcing Andres to step back. “We will all do as ordered.” He tilted his head, his brows high as he waited for Andres to capitulate. The silence was thick as Andres stood his ground, returning Porthos stare. After another moment, the stout man backed down. With a grunt of contempt, he turned and stalked out of the room.

The other three sighed in unison.

“I’ll move my things to his room,” Brisemont offered. “He’d calmed down considerably during our patrol. I thought I’d gotten him to see reason, but now I fear that may be a task beyond my abilities.” He turned back to Aramis and Porthos, offering them a sad smile. “Do you still believe Mordelle and LaPorte’s death were accidents?”

Porthos looked at Aramis before shaking his head. “No. We’re goin’ to go back to the docks and the stables in the morning.”

“We really have nothing to go on,” Aramis conceded. “Unless one of us has some kind of connection to someone here on the island, these attacks are random at best. Their purpose still a mystery.”

Brisemont nodded, “I will try to gather any information I can from Andres, though I fear he is far too angry to think clearly. If you come to any conclusions, please don’t hesitate to inform us.”

“We won’t,” Porthos assured him. “Try to keep Andres from doin’ or sayin’ anything stupid until we can come up with a plan to figure all this out.”

Brisemont chuckled, but the sound held little humor. “I will do my best.”

“That is all we can ask,” Aramis grasped his outstretched hand. “Stay safe, my brother.”

tbc


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Aramis’ eyes snapped open, slowly focusing on the unfamiliar ceiling above. It took his clouded mind a moment to remember where he was, the simple yet surprisingly comfortable bed hardly aiding his attempt at wakefulness. He shifted, made an effort to sit up, his head reminding him why sudden movement was not a good idea.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed with a groan and rested his elbows on his thighs, cradling his aching head in his hands. Taking deep breaths through his nose, he swallowed heavily, working to quell the nausea in his stomach as the pounding in his head slowly receded to a manageable level.

Deigning to open his eyes once he’d forced his body into submission, he was met with Porthos’ smirking face directly before him on the opposite bed.

“Mornin’,” the big man greeted, his voice thankfully subdued, no doubt aware Aramis wouldn’t be up to tolerating loud noises quite so readily.

“Mmmm,” he hummed in return, wincing as the vibrations cascaded through his body, sending a spike of pain into his skull.

“Head still hurts, huh?”

Aramis barely refrained from rolling his eyes and managed a grunt in acknowledgement.

Porthos’ chuckled softly, pushing himself to his feet. “I’ll take that as a yes.” 

Aramis huffed a soft laugh from his lips as he hunched his shoulders, his hand drifting to the back of his neck. Slowly he rolled his head, sighing as the muscles loosened, easing some of the tension. He blinked as he focused on the room, wincing at the morning light shining through the open window.

Porthos laughed again. “Yeah, you drifted off before Athos and d’Artagnan returned last night. Didn’t have the heart to wake you.”

Aramis smiled his thanks. “Did they speak with the Marquis?”

“Nah, they got stymied by that steward – Mollier. He said the Marquis couldn’t be disturbed. He promised to have Foquet informed.”

Aramis did roll his eyes at the audacity of propriety. 

“And Bernajoux’ body?”

Porthos’ shoulders slumped at the reminder of their comrade’s death. “D’Artagnan and I placed him in the cellar.” He returned to the bed with his boots, pulling them on without looking up from his task. “We’ll take him to the ice house where they took LaPorte when we go to the docks today.”

Aramis nodded, knowing there was nothing to say to make the situation any easier to bear.

A knock on the door heralded d’Artagnan as if simply speaking his name caused him to appear.

The Gascon eyed Aramis’ slumped form as he entered. The marksman remained seated on the edge of the bed and gave the younger man a quick smile in greeting, not yet prepared to attempt a more vertical position.

“You’ve looked better,” d’Artagnan remarked.

Aramis’ grin softened at the concern in his friend’s voice. “Yet I remain the standard for the regiment.”

Both d’Artagnan and Porthos snorted their opinions on the subject.

“I assure you I’m fine,” Aramis blatantly ignored their responses. “A headache, but it won’t keep me from assisting your inquiries on the docks.” He looked toward the open door. “Athos?”

“Went to see the Marquis,” d’Artagnan informed them. “Mollier wasn’t answering our summons, and Athos didn’t want to waste any more time. I think if Foquet won’t see him, Athos will go directly to the King to report our suspicions.”

The others nodded in agreement. 

Before they could continue, a scream rent the air, echoing down the hallway. The three Musketeers exchanged an anxious look then ran for the door, unsure of what they would find. They turned just outside the threshold in time to see Brisemont stumble backwards into the hallway, his eyes wide, trained on something inside the next room.

“Brisemont!” Porthos called, reaching the man first, grabbing his arm and turning him. “What is it? What’s happened?”

Brisemont’s body pivoted at Porthos’ urging, but his head stayed facing the room, his eyes locked onto whatever horror he’d witnessed.

“Brisemont!” Porthos shook him, hard, causing him to finally shift his gaze to the bigger man’s face. His mouth opened and closed a few times, his head shaking back and forth as his arm came up, shaking fingers pointing toward the open doorway.

Pressing him back, Porthos stepped across the threshold, stopping cold as soon as he was in the room.

A keening wail rose from inside, and Aramis grabbed Brisemont, shoving him back to d’Artagnan as he pushed past Porthos’ bulk. 

He froze, taking in the scene before him.

Andres was on his knees, his arms held in front of him, his breaths coming in harsh gasps. He stared in shock at the skin stretched on his hands bubbled and blistered right before their eyes. The pink flesh was drenched red, blood seeping as the tissue tore, sending splatters of dark blood to the floor.

“Mon Dieu!” Aramis exclaimed as he rushed to Andres, sliding to his knees and grasping the man’s wrists just below his destroyed hands. “Water!” he called, frantically looking around. “We need water!” 

Porthos made a move toward the basin on the stand beside Andres when Brisemont suddenly found his voice. “No!” he dashed back into the room, pulling Porthos away just as he bent to retrieve the basin. “Don’t touch it!” He yanked on Porthos’ arm with a strength borne of desperation, forcing the bigger man to back away from the stand, eyeing Brisemont in confusion.

“What? Why? You heard ‘im, we need water!”

“The water is what did this!” Brisemont hastily explained. He pointed to Andres blistering hands. “He touched it, screamed and…” He waved at the damaged appendages, the results obvious.

“D’Artagnan!” Aramis bellowed, motioning with his head for the younger man to retrieve the pitcher of water from their own room.

As d’Artagnan dashed back down the hall, Aramis turned his attention to the shaking man in front of him.

“Andres,” he called softly, dipping his head in an attempt to catch the older man’s eyes. “Andres, can you hear me? I need to you take deep breaths.” 

Andres’ eyes were rimmed in red, a testament to his pain. Aramis squeezed the wrists he held, forcing Andres’ gaze to slowly crawl to meet his own. He waited until the man’s focus sharpened, swallowing once at the depth of suffering he saw.

“I know it hurts,” Aramis soothed. “But you must not move until we can wash them. Whatever is causing this must be cleaned away. Do you understand?”

Andres nodded slowly, his breath beginning to catch in his throat. 

Aramis noted his difficulty, frowning as the man’s complexion began to pale further. “Andres?” he called, his voice urgent, commanding. “Andres, look at me!”

The older Musketeer attempted to comply, but the wheezing in his throat became worse and his neck stretched as he struggled for breath.

“Andres!”

Aramis looked back, catching Porthos’ eye.

“Help me lay him down,” he ordered, knowing the big man would follow his instructions without question. Porthos moved immediately, rounding the two men and guiding Andres down to the floor, Aramis still gently holding the damaged hands aloft. “Loosen his belt. Hopefully that will ease his breathing.”

Porthos did as he was bid, settling back on his haunches, watching as Andres gulped air into his lungs.

D’Artagnan rushed back into the room, two pitchers of water held in his hands. At the tilt of Aramis’ head, he set one down on the floor and crouched next to his friend, holding the other in readiness.

“Pour it slowly over his hands,” the marksman ordered. He carefully pulled Andres’ hands to the side to keep the man from becoming drenched, keeping a firm grasp as d’Artagnan proceeded to pour the water over the blistering flesh. Idly Aramis thought he should’ve probably tested the water to be sure it was safe, but noted it had spilled across the Gascon’s hands in his haste to return and if d’Artagnan had not complained of a reaction, it was more than likely just harmless water.

As the cooling liquid began to relieve the burning, Andres settled into a half stupor, the lids of his eyes falling but not quite closing. His breath continued to rasp in and out of his throat, but he was breathing and some of the tension had leaked from his body, whether it be from exhaustion or release, Aramis would not deny the man his reprieve.

“We’ll need to soak the hands to make sure whatever burned them is gone,” Aramis sighed, slumping forward but keeping the damaged limbs from touching anything else. “Once they’re cleaned properly we will need to bandage them with clean cloths. I am sure the Marquis has a physician or herbalist on hand. We will need a salve to keep the worst of the pain at bay.”

Porthos’ eyes were still locked on the horrible sight. “Will they heal?”

Aramis took a deep breath as he assessed the depth of injury to the flesh. He shook his head sadly. “No,” he responded. “I’m afraid the damage is too severe. I doubt he will never be able to use them again.”

Silence reigned as they each absorbed the pronouncement.

“What could cause this?” d’Artagnan asked, his voice heavy with remorse. “It was just water.”

Without releasing his grip, Aramis shrugged. “Some type of acid I assume. Most probably muriatic acid. It’s been used for centuries. I’m no chemist, but know it can be quite dangerous if mishandled though I’ve never seen it used as a weapon before now.”

Athos chose that moment to return, entering the room with Foquet’s chief steward in tow.

“What happened?” the swordsman asked, kneeling beside their resident medic.

“Aramis thinks it was acid,” d’Artagnan spoke up. 

“In the water,” the marksman concurred. 

“Another attempt on one of us,” Athos seethed. He eyed the damage, wincing at the state of Andres’ hands. “Will he live?”

Aramis could only shrug in response. This type of injury was far beyond his battlefield expertise. 

Athos stood, moving toward the steward, his arm outstretched, pointing toward the injured Musketeer. “Do you understand the urgency now?” His voice was cold though his eyes blazed hot. “We have already lost four of our brothers, yet you dare to deny me access to the Marquis. Must I take this to the King himself?”

Mollier swallowed hard in the wake of Athos’ anger, but thrust his chin forward, his face devoid of emotion. “I am merely following my orders, Monsieur. The Marquis has left instructions not –“

“Instructions be damned!” Athos shouted. It was unusual for the former Comte to allow his emotions to rule his actions, but when it came to the lives of his men, Aramis knew there was little the man would not do to ensure their safety. “There are lives at risk including the King himself! You will take me to Foquet at once or I will see the King informed of your obstruction!”

The threat seemed to penetrate the man’s defenses. He nodded stiffly. “Very well.”

Sighing in relief, Athos turned back to the others. “I will have a physician sent for immediately. Once I have spoken to the Marquis and ensured his cooperation concerning the King’s safety, we will find whoever is responsible.”

“When we do,” Porthos breathed, “I’m goin’ to tear ‘im limb from limb.”

Aramis, still holding Andres’ wrists, resisted the urge to cross himself. “With God as my witness, brother, I will help you.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Athos pushed through the doors of the main hall, striding past Mollier and straight up to the Marquis without waiting for an introduction.

“Forgive the discourtesy, My Lord, but my need to speak with you is of the utmost urgency.”

Perched on an ornate chair situated on a raised dais, Foquet looked up from the scrolls he was perusing, his eyes scanning the Musketeer calmly. The scribe standing just behind the intricately carved wood of the chair looked down his nose at Athos as if he were a fly needing to be swatted.

“So it would appear,” the Marquis responded after a moment, his eyes touched with a faint amusement. He motioned his scribe away and focused his full attention on the soldier before him. “I am at your disposal… Athos, is it?”

The swordsman nodded, surprised by the man’s quick capitulation to his demand. 

Foquet smiled. “The King speaks most highly of you, sir. It is an honor to meet you.” He spread his hands before him. “Now, how may I be of service? Does the King have a request? I am sure my staff will be able to fulfill any of his Majesty’s desires.”

Athos, momentarily taken aback by the Marquis’ amenable attitude after being repeatedly told the nobleman had so little time to hear his grievances, cleared his throat in an attempt to force the anger from his voice. “I am afraid this has nothing to do with His Majesty,” Athos began. “At least I don’t believe so for the moment. Are you aware that four of my men have been killed since our arrival here on Belle Ile?”

Foquet’s eyes rounded in surprise. “Four?” he repeated. “I was informed of the accident on the docks soon after your arrival, but I’ve heard nothing of any others.”

“They were not accidents,” Athos informed him. “We believed so at first – the first two deaths being suspicious at best. But another was murdered last night behind the kitchens near the well. His throat was cut.”

Foquet rose from his chair, his face paling at the news. “You said four men had died.”

Athos nodded somberly. “Another – a young recruit – was poisoned last evening after we had retired to our rooms.” The Marquis didn’t comment. “And just now, another of our number was attacked – burned by the water left in his quarters. Our field medic believes it was some kind of acid.”

Foquet’s shook his head and stepped down onto the marble floor of the hall, his concern obvious. “Why am I just learning of this now?”

“I attempted to speak with you last night, but was thwarted by your steward who informed me you had left instructions not to be disturbed.” Athos couldn’t completely erase the hint of censure that leaked into his voice.

Foquet looked at him, confused. “My staff knows I am always available to the needs of our guests. It was the steward, you say? Mollier?”

Athos simply nodded, his frustration with the servant apparent.

Foquet shook his head again. “That would explain the confusion. My Chief Steward, Ormsby, suddenly took ill and was taken to the mainland for treatment along with his wife who runs the kitchens. It was fortunate Mollier and his wife were visiting relatives on the island. They came with excellent references, but obviously do not have the experience Ormsby had.” 

Athos turned his gaze over his shoulder toward the door, but Mollier was nowhere in sight.

“I assure you, Monsieur Athos, I will have him set straight at once.”

Athos nodded in thanks.

“Now,” Foquet continued. “About your men…”

“We would like your permission to investigate,” Athos requested, knowing their hands would be tied if the Marquis forbid their inquiries.”

“Of course, of course. I will instruct my staff to cooperate fully. Is there anything I can do to aid in your investigation?”

The man was very eager to help, which set Athos suspicions on edge, but the Musketeer could see nothing but true concern in the Marquis’ eyes.

“Just see to the King’s safety,” Athos responded. “With our numbers depleted, I fear the King could be at undue risk.”

Foquet nodded immediately. “I will have my most trusted guards place at his disposal,” he assured. “And I will personally stay by his side if need be.”

Athos bowed, relieved. “Thank you, My Lord. Your cooperation in this matter is greatly appreciated.”

Foquet waved a hand, his mouth set in a tight line. “Just find whoever is responsible, Monsieur. I will not have these vile happenings on my island.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

When Athos returned, he found the remaining four Musketeers in the hallway outside the door to Andres’ room. Brisemont was leaning against the wall, staring at the closed door, while d’Artagnan and Porthos both flanked Aramis who was seated in a delicate looking chair, elbows on his knees, head held in his hands. A raised brow garnered him an explanation.

“The Marquis’ physician arrived moments ago,” d’Artagnan explained. He glanced at Brisemont and Athos followed his gaze, noting the man’s agitation. “He thought it better we wait out here while he examined Andres,” the Gascon continued, shrugging regretfully.

“We are out here because of their concern for me,” Aramis spoke without bothering to lift his head. 

Porthos huffed a laugh and knocked a knee into his friend’s thigh. “This one decided to swoon,” he smiled, but Athos had little trouble reading the concern in his eyes. “Thought he was goin’ to pass out proper. The doctor told him to get some fresh air.”

Athos nodded, kneeling down in front of the marksman, placing a hand on his arm. While Brisemont’s reaction to the morning’s events was concerning, Athos could not forget that Aramis had been attacked last night also. “How are you feeling now? Should we have the physician look at you when he is finished with Andres?”

Aramis lifted his head and smiled. “I’m fine. A bit dizzy, but that’s to be expected.” He patted Athos’ hand then straightened in the chair. “Two mother hens are quite enough, thank you.”

D’Artagnan chuckled and Porthos cuffed him on the shoulder affectionately.

Athos nodded, accepting the marksman’s words. Though Aramis was one to downplay his own injuries when others were more in need, he rarely lied when openly confronted about his condition.

“The Marquis was quite accommodating,” Athos stated as he rose to his full height. “He gave us permission to investigate and is sending word to all staff and workers to cooperate fully.”

“That’s a relief,” d’Artagnan whistled between his teeth. “I assumed he would be difficult from what Mollier told us.”

“As did I,” Athos tipped his head. “But apparently Foquet’s usual steward had taken ill and Mollier is his replacement. The Marquis will make sure he does not further hinder our search.”

“Good to know,” Porthos stated with satisfaction. “So what now?”

Athos looked to the closed doorway, then shifted his gaze to Brisemont who had finally stopped staring at the door and focused his attention on them. Athos was relieved to see the quiet man’s countenance return to it’s normal hue, not liking the paleness of his features when he had first encountered him in Andres’ room earlier. Brisemont nodded once, silently indicating his readiness to do whatever Athos deemed necessary.

While he would rather allow Brisemont to remain in the chateau to guard the wounded Musketeer, one look at Aramis made his decision clear.

“Porthos, take d’Artagnan and revisit the docks. See if you can find anything to indicate either of the accidents were deliberate.” He waited for the big man to nod his agreement before continuing. “Brisemont and I will speak with the kitchen staff. I want to know who had access to the wine last night and the water in Andres’ basin this morning.”

Aramis opened his mouth to protest, but Athos placed a hand on his arm, staying his words.

“Once the physician is finished, you are the best choice to remain with Andres,” he stated. His tone softened. “And your eyes betray you, my friend. I can see you are still in pain. I will not risk you being injured again.”

Aramis dropped his gaze and nodded, compliant, and Athos sighed, relieved in the knowledge at least one of them would remain safe.

“We will return here in one hour,” he ordered. “Remain on guard. I will not lose anyone else.”

tbc


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Aramis sank wearily into the chair beside the bed Andres currently occupied. The physician had given the wounded Musketeer a pain draught to ease his suffering, but had confirmed Aramis’ earlier diagnosis that there was little they could do to save the man’s hands. The acid – if that was what had been in the water – had eaten away the tissue to such an extent the doctor had only been able to cleanse the hands as well as he could and wrap them, hoping the deterioration would abate on its own. 

Aramis could tell the physician had not thought it likely, and he feared Andres would not survive such a grievous injury.

While he would have preferred to accompany the others, he could not deny Athos had been correct in his assessment. His head still throbbed relentlessly, the contusion on the back of his skull throbbing mercilessly in sync with his heartbeat. The persistent ache would slow his reflexes, making him vulnerable; a weakness they could not afford with a murderer on the loose. As much as he regretted not being with his brothers to watch their backs, he knew being here with Andres – if only so the older soldier knew he wasn’t alone – was just as important. It was a duty he did not take lightly.

He sighed, allowing himself to slump back in the high backed chair. His body slowly relaxed as his own fatigue coupled with Andres’ soft breathing lulled him into a stupor. A knock on the door startled him back to wakefulness and he pushed himself up with a groan. Heeding Athos’ warning, he retrieved his pistol from the table beside the chair before crossing the room and easing open the heavy door.

Mollier stood outside the room, his face as dour as always.

“Good morning, sir,” he intoned. His voice held no warmth, no concern for what had happened earlier. “The physician bade me bring you some wine to help with your injury.” 

Aramis eyed the bottle and goblet perched upon the tray balanced on the man’s arm. 

Noticing the Musketeers hesitation, the corner of Mollier’s lip twisted up in what Aramis supposed was a conciliatory smile, though it looked more sinister on the man’s narrow face.

“I assure you, Monsieur, I have been instructed to be most careful with anything served to you and your men. This is from the Marquis’ private collection with his compliments. I assure you there is no poison. It is merely to help you relax.”

Aramis nodded, wincing as the motion spiked the pain in his head. Perhaps a bit of wine was just what he needed. The doctor had offered to make him a less potent pain draught than the one he’d given Andres, but Aramis had refused, knowing he would need his wits about him if any type of threat presented itself before the others could return. A glass of wine would relax him enough to quell the pounding in his head without incapacitating him. Besides, how could he turn down such a gift from the Marquis himself? He stepped aside, allowing Mollier to enter and place the tray on the table near the chair.

Aramis tensed as the steward took a long look at Andres, but the man did not comment and quickly turned back, exiting the room as quietly as he’d entered. Once back in the hallway, he bowed courteously. “Do you require anything else, Monsieur?”

“No,” the marksman responded with a sigh. “Thank you, Mollier.”

Aramis closed the door, leaning against it as the steward’s footsteps faded down the hall.

He crossed back to the table and poured some of the wine into the goblet, bringing it to his face and taking a cautious sip. It was a good vintage; not too dry, woodsy with a hint of berry he couldn’t identify tickling his palate. With a grunt of appreciation for the Marquis’ tastes, he settled back into the chair to keep guard.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

D’Artagnan leaned over the edge of the concrete wall, his stomach churning as hard as the rolling water below. The blue of the sea was tainted brown as the water slapped up against the embankment, mixing with the mud and silt, frothing as the power of waves fought against the impenetrable stone and mortar. It was as mesmerizing as it was dangerous and the young Musketeer swallowed back his awe at the magnificence of natures might.

 

“Tell me again what happened to Mordelle,” Porthos ordered as he came up beside him.

D’Artagnan shrugged, tearing his eyes away from the turbulent waters. “I wasn’t actually looking at him when he fell.” He waved a hand at the chest high wall. “One moment he was standing right here, the next there was a scream and he was gone. By the time any of us got to the wall to look down, there was no sign of him.”

Porthos nodded. “The Portmaster said a body could be sucked straight down by the force of the water.” He rubbed a hand across his beard as he stared down into the churning waves below. “I just don’t understand how there could be no sign of him at all.”

D’Artagnan shrugged again. “That’s how it happened.”

“I’m not doubtin’ ya, Whelp. I’m just not likin’ that nobody saw anythin’. I’m findin’ it a bit unnerving that Mordelle’s fall is such a mystery.”

“Maybe we’ll find something at the stables?”

Porthos nodded. “Only one way to find out.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Athos paused at the open door to the kitchen and observed the coordinated chaos within. Workers hauled in produce and wagonloads of meats, while women were chopping and kneading at wooden tables around the edges of the vast room. The plump woman who seemed to be directing it all noticed the two Musketeers on the edge of the activity and approached, a wooden ladle brandished in her hand.

“I warned the other Musketeers about interferin’ in my kitchen,” she huffed. “You have no place here. Be gone!”

Athos tipped his head, not intimidated by the woman’s tone – or choice of weapon – in the least. “I am here with the Marquis’ consent,” he informed her. “There has been an incident involving the food delivered from your kitchen, Madame. You will speak to me now, or has the Marquis’ order of cooperation not been delivered as yet?”

The woman’s ruddy complexion reddened further and she pushed a strand of graying hair back from her flushed face.

“It has.”

“Then I will expect your capitulation in this matter, Madame…?”

She licked her lips, the hand holding the ladle tightening. “Mollier,” she responded after a moment.

“Mollier? You’re the steward’s wife?”

“The same.”

Athos remembered Foquet informing him that Mollier and his wife had been available to replace his staff. He didn’t, at the moment know why that seemed important, but he filed the information away nonetheless.

“Were you aware one of the Musketeers accompanying the King has been killed after eating the food your kitchen sent to his room?”

Her eyes shifted, unable to hold his. “I’ve been informed.”

“And what have you to say of this?”

The woman opened her mouth and closed it quickly, her face paling. She shifted on her feet, her head turning as she glanced around the kitchen. “I don’t have anything to say,” she grunted, defensively. “I run a clean kitchen. If your man was poisoned, it was no fault of mine.”

“Yet you know he was poisoned,” Athos pressed, sure the woman knew more than she was admitting.

“Rumors spread fast here.” Madame Mollier countered.

Athos grunted, acknowledging the validity of the claim. “Who had access to the trays delivered to the Musketeers’ rooms last night?”

“Perhaps you should speak to the maids,” the cook responded without hesitation. “I will send for the two on duty. You can ask them your questions. If you will excuse me, I have work to do.” With a derisive sniff, she turned and hustled back into the kitchen, stopping to whisper a few words to one of the young girls working with the vegetables along the way.

Athos watched as the girl glanced their way, nodded to the Madame and hurried out of the room.

“She’s lying,” Brisemont bristled behind him.

“Yes,” Athos agreed, watching as Madame Mollier disappeared through the door at the rear of the kitchen. 

“Perhaps one of us should follow her?”

Athos shook his head. 

Brisemont huffed an impatient breath. “If she is involved, she could be attempting to escape. We can’t just let her go!”

“It is an island,” Athos reminded him. “She will not get far.” He turned toward the other Musketeer. “I understand your impatience, but even if she is responsible for what happened to Degausse, she cannot be connected to what happened to Mordelle or LaPorte.”

“So she is not working alone,” Brisemont concluded.

“So it would seem. We need more information before we can begin casting allegations.” Athos reminded him. “So far as we know, Madame Mollier has little reason to want Degausse or any of us dead.”

Mollified, Brisemont nodded tightly.

“I will wait here for the maids. Perhaps they can shed some light on Madame Mollier’s behavior. You will return to the rooms, inform Aramis of our suspicions and caution him to accept nothing from the maids until we can ascertain whether or not any of them had means or opportunity to administer the poison.” Athos could understand Brisemont’s anger – he felt it himself – but they must proceed with caution if they wanted to avoid any more tragedy. “Wait there for the others. I will be along shortly.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

The stables were quiet when they arrived, save for the loud clanking of a blacksmith laboring outside and the soft snuffling of the horses that remained in their stalls. D’Artagnan stayed back, allowing Porthos to roam down the wide space between the two rows of facing stalls, checking each animal to see if the one that had been hitched to the wagon when LaPorte had been trampled was present. A few moments later, he heard a whistle and quickly joined the older Musketeer outside a stall near the end of the row.

“This is the one,” Porthos nodded toward the big bay standing quietly, staring at them with large, placid eyes.

D’Artagnan leaned over the tall stall door, his eyes roaming over the animal. “He doesn’t look like he’d startle easily.” He knew this was the horse that had killed their comrade, but the animal stood steady, not showing any kind of fear as they opened the doors to the stall. It was obviously an animal used to humans and did not show the slightest concern at their presence.

Porthos stepped inside first, holding out a hand to the horse, speaking calmly as he reached out to touch the animal’s nose. “That’s a good boy,” he cooed. “Nice ‘n easy now.”

The gelding tossed its head lightly as the Musketeer rubbed at the space between its eyes, but showed no outward sign of agitation. As Porthos moved further into the stall, he kept his hand on the animal, gliding it down its hide slowly. D’Artagnan stepped in and took hold of the horse’s bridle, letting the animal snuff at his hair as he watched Porthos move to the rear of the stall.

The big man’s hand stopped near the horse’s rump and he looked across his shoulder, beckoning d’Artagnan to join him.

“Tell me what you see,” Porthos stepped away as the younger man approached, his eyes focusing on the narrow horizontal groove in the horse’s brown hide near its tail. As d’Artagnan stepped closer, Porthos returned to the horse’s head, grabbing the bridle and absently petting the animal’s neck. The horse stood steady, enjoying the attention.

D’Artagnan narrowed his eyes in the dim light of the stable, ran a hand lightly along the scabbed-over gash. “It could’ve been from the reins,” he offered. “But then it would be more up and down rather than across. It could’ve been caused by the edge of a crate or a knife?” His voice rose as if in question and he looked back to Porthos with a shrug. “Though that’s unlikely, especially if it wasn’t noticed when they hitched the wagon.” 

“There wasn’t anyone close enough on the dock to use a knife,” Porthos informed him.

The Gascon nodded and stepped back, tucking his hands up under his arms. “Then I’d say it was a gunshot wound. A glancing shot, most probably from a musket.”

Porthos nodded in agreement. “That’s what I thought, too.” He patted the horse and turned back toward the door. “I doubt we can prove LaPorte’s death was murder, but it’s fairly clear someone took a shot at us. I heard something, but with all the noise down on the docks, it didn’t register until after the horse reared. It was just bad luck LaPorte got caught under the hooves.”

Following his friend, d’Artagnan secured the stall door and turned to studying the wall at the end of the aisle. There were a few harnesses and ropes hanging from pegs driven into the weathered wood as well as a few rusting tools. One peg held a narrow leather bag filled with what looked like metal arrows one would use with a crossbow. D’Artagnan grinned, remembering learning how to use one to hunt back in Gascony. His father had told him stories of the cranequinier – the mounted crossbowman of the previous century – and young d’Artagnan recalled spending many a day pretending to be one. Later, when his aptitude with a rapier became apparent, his dreams turned to the newer and more romantic Musketeers, but he still looked upon the crossbow with fondness, not only for its grace and simplicity, but for the memories of his father’s patient tutelage.

There was another empty peg just to the right of the bag of metal bolts, but before d’Artagnan could contemplate whether it ever held a weapon like the one he remembered, he was violently shoved to the side, crashing into the wall, knocking the bag and harnesses from the pegs. 

He heard a grunt of pain followed by a crash, and managed to twist his head around in time to see a cloaked figure at the far end of the stalls lower a crossbow and flee out the wide door at the front of the stables. Looking to his left, his breath caught in his throat as his eyes caught sight of Porthos. The big man was slumped against the wall, his eyes squeezed tightly, his teeth bared in soundless agony. He held his left arm across his stomach, his right hand grasping at the formidable metal bolt piercing his left bicep.

D’Artagnan quickly scrambled across the hay-strewn ground to his friend’s side. His hands ghosted above the wound, not knowing where to touch without causing more pain.

“Porthos?”

“It’s all right,” the big man grunted. “Go!”

d’Artagnan dashed down the aisle and skidded to a stop at the front entrance of the stables. His chest was heaving as he looked around, desperately trying to catch sight of their attacker, but the man had vanished and was nowhere in sight. After a few moments, his need to get back to Porthos became overwhelming and he swallowed his disappointment and returned to his friend’s side.

Porthos had managed to lever himself back to his feet, but he was pale and in obvious pain. Clutching the wounded arm close to his chest, he leaning his good shoulder back against the stall door for balance. He raised his brows as d’Artagnan returned, the Gascon shaking his head is silent apology.

“He disappeared,” the younger Musketeer reluctantly informed him. “Whoever this is, he knows his way around.” He gently took hold of the older man’s arm, moving closer to get a better look at the bolt sticking out both sides of the wound. “It’s not bleeding too bad,” he observed. 

The bolt protruded about an inch at the back of his arm, the long metal shaft near the surface, forming an outward curve along the flesh. It was bleeding, but not nearly as much as d’Artagnan had feared.

Porthos swallowed heavily and winced as he shifted his arm. “It’s not in deep,” he said breathlessly. “Just hit muscle. Aramis can handle it.”

D’Artagnan nodded, knowing Porthos would rather trust the marksman than any physician the Marquis could provide. “Then let’s get you back to the chateau.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Aramis was dreaming.

His limbs felt heavy as he melted into the chair, his chest slowly rising and falling, his breath floating in and out of his lungs. His eyes were hooded, his vision clouded by a golden haze, the room too bright for him to discern any real detail. 

He felt more than saw a presence approach and his gaze locked on the dark shape as it crept nearer, silhouetted against the vivid hue of the room. Slowly, haltingly, the figure leaned close, its features distorted, and Aramis breathed in the aroma of horses, hay and leather. 

He blinked and the figure disappeared, only to coalesce a few paces away, near the bed and the unconscious man it contained. The figure looked at him again, a shaft of light illuminating it from the side, and Aramis gasped, his sluggish brain putting a name to the ghost.

It had to be a ghost. It was the only explanation his detached mind could fathom.

He watched, transfixed, as the ghost reached down and shifted the man – Andres, his mind solicitously provided – and pulled something from beneath his rolling head.

The pillow.

It was the pillow Andres had been resting upon, now held loosely in the ghost’s hands.

Dimly Aramis wondered if ghosts could actually hold such a tangible object, the answer obvious as it slowly lowered the pillow to cover Andres’ face.

The sleeping Musketeer struggled for a moment – or was it longer… Aramis couldn’t really tell.

Something in his head, an instinct borne of survival, tried to tell him to move, that what was happening was wrong, but his body refused to respond to his will, twitching lethargically as he struggled to make sense of what he was witnessing. 

He blinked again and the ghost was directly in front of him, leaning down, smiling as he met his eyes.

Aramis opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came forth save a soft groan, which made the ghost’s smile widen, the effect chilling him to the bone.

Aramis shivered. 

He felt the ghost’s touch on his face, his arm. His hand was shifted and something was removed from his grasp. 

The goblet. 

The wine.

Something deep inside, an intuition still able to function flashed a warning, but it was fleeting and Aramis couldn’t catch it, couldn’t understand its meaning.

After all, it was just a dream.

It was the only thing that made sense.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

D’Artagnan struggled to support Porthos as the bigger man began to falter, more and more of his weight settling on the Gascon’s shoulders. He’d made it as far as the chateau on his own steam, but his strength had begun to wane as they descended the stairs to the wing that housed their quarters. As they approached the room they had left Aramis and Andres in, Porthos’ stamina had nearly given out, the pain and blood loss taking its toll.

As they neared, d’Artagnan frowned, noting the door to the room stood ajar. He knew Aramis would not have left it open, taking his duty to guard Andres much too seriously to allow such a mistake, especially considering they could trust no one but themselves. He momentarily worried the knock on the head had adversely affected the marksman, but d’Artagnan refused to believe that even wounded, the seasoned soldier would be so careless.

“What is it?” Porthos inquired, noticing the younger man’s hesitation.

D’Artagnan tipped his chin toward the doorway. “Something’s wrong,” he stated, cautious. 

Porthos followed the Gascon’s gaze, grunting in agreement when he saw the open door. He shifted, taking back his own weight, allowing d’Artagnan to slide closer to the room, his back to the wall. Quietly the young Musketeer pulled his dagger from its sheath, raising his hand to the partially opened door and slowly moving it aside.

Stepping inside, d’Artagnan quickly realized the room was empty save for the figure lying frighteningly still on the bed. The chair next to the bed was on its side, the accompanying table overturned, a dark stain marking the rug. D’Artagnan hurried across the room to the bed, his eyes locked on Andres lying beneath the blankets. A pillow lay across the man’s head and d’Artagnan yanked it aside, sighing in anguish as he caught sight of the unnatural paleness of the wounded Musketeer’s face. 

A thump against the doorframe startled him and he looked back as Porthos staggered in, his gaze focused on the man unmoving on the bed. 

Already knowing what he would find, d’Artagnan leaned down and placed a hand against Andres’ chest, his head dropping when there was no answering thump against his palm. He noted Andres’ skin was still warm and he squeezed his eyes tightly, knowing if they had been just a few moments earlier, they may have been able to save him.

He straightened and looked back at Porthos, shaking his head sadly.

Porthos sighed and slumped against the wall.

“Damn.”

Footsteps in the hall caught their attention and both men tensed as Athos appeared in the open doorway. The swordsman’s eyes swept the room, not asking for an explanation as the weight of the loss settled on his already burdened shoulders.

He shifted, grasping Porthos’ good arm as the big man began to slide down the wall. Gently he guided him to the chair, levering it up and settling Porthos against the high, cushioned back.

“What happened?”

“Someone in the stables didn’t want us poking around,” Porthos grunted out between clenched teeth.

D’Artagnan pulled the blanket up to cover Andres’s shoulders and head before moving around the bed, grabbing a clean roll of bandages from the table on the other side.

“The man was cloaked,” d’Artagnan continued the report as he watched Athos examine the bolt sticking through Porthos’ arm. “We didn’t get a look at his face and I lost him in the crowd on the docks, but he was a young man. I’m sure of that.”

Athos nodded in acknowledgement. “Where’s Aramis?”

Porthos and d’Artagnan exchanged a look over the swordsman’s head.

“He wasn’t here.” d’Artagnan wasn’t sure whether that was a bad thing or a good one.

“Andres?”

“Dead,” d’Artagnan stated bluntly. “There was a pillow over his face when we arrived. I think he was suffocated.”

“Aramis would never have left him alone,” Porthos stated, confident. “And he would’ve fought anyone he deemed a threat.”

Athos nodded in agreement. “I sent Brisemont on ahead to warn Aramis of the maids’ or cook’s possible involvement. He was to wait here for you to return.” He stood and looked to d’Artagnan in silent question.

The Gascon shrugged. “He wasn’t here.” He glanced toward the bed where Andres’ body lay still and silent. “Perhaps he left with Aramis?”

“Athos.”

The swordsman looked up at Porthos’ soft voice, his eyes following the wounded man’s gaze to the dark stain covering the floor beside the the chair, near the overturned table.

Athos took a step to his left and crouched before the stain, rubbing his fingers against the carpet, bringing them to his nose then his tongue.

“Wine,” he said, shoulders sagging in relief. 

“Thank God.” Porthos breathed, his words not much more than a sigh. 

Athos rose, rubbing a hand on his bearded chin, his eyes distant, still staring down at the stain. 

D’Artagnan voiced what they were all thinking. “But it’s still a possibility whoever is behind this has taken him. Or both of them.” 

Athos turned his attention back to his friends, his expression grim. “It is quite possible,” he admitted. “But speculating further without additional information does us little good.” He kneeled beside the chair, carefully prodding the skin the bowed out around the shaft of the bolt.

“It’s near the surface,” he observed. Both Porthos and d’Artagnan knew he was focusing their attention on the wound they could immediately do something about rather than the internal one they could not. “I fear pulling it out would tear the flesh. It may be more prudent to cut it from the outside than draw it back through.”

“Do it,” Porthos grunted. “Aramis can fuss over it after we get him back.”

Athos nodded and pulled out his dagger. “I’m afraid this will hurt.”

The big Musketeer snorted derisively but grabbed the arm of the chair with his other hand, his knuckles white around the delicate wood. “Just get on with it.” He turned his head and grit his teeth as Athos raised the dagger to his arm. 

D’Artagnan flinched, swallowing hard as Athos’ blade pierced the dark skin and Porthos’ roar echoed through the room.

tbc


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

This time Aramis knew it was not a dream; although he would give anything to have it be.

Dreams rarely hurt this much.

As he shifted on the cold ground his stomach rolled, and he swallowed convulsively in an effort to keep the bile from rising in his throat. His tongue felt thick, at least two sizes too big for his mouth and the bitter taste made the gorge threaten to rise once more.

Breathing through his nose, he managed to bring his stomach under control before chancing any kind of movement again. Without opening his eyes, he catalogued his body’s condition.

Besides the nausea and all too familiar throbbing in his head, his shoulders and his left hip ached as if he’d slept on them throughout the night. The discomfort was explained when the attempt to move his arms into a more comfortable position was thwarted by the burn of ropes around his wrists. With his arms secured behind his back, his left shoulder and hip were taking the brunt of his weight as he lay against the hard ground. He wriggled a bit, testing the bonds, but they held fast and his meager amount of energy quickly dissipated leaving him dizzy and gasping for breath.

He shivered. The ground was cold, the air stale and cool against his exposed skin. He realized he was clad only in his shirt and breeches, having removed his doublet while he sat with Andres, and longed for the warmth and security the thick leather normally provided.

He swallowed again, forcing his mind to clear, knowing there had to be a reasonable explanation for his discomfort.

He wedged his eyes open, slowly blinking the haze away, only to be met with the disconcerting sight of a body slumped against the opposite wall. There was scant light in the room, a single candle placed in the center, spilling a flickering cast of orange illumination against the walls. The candle’s feeble reach left most of the room in darkness, but Aramis could make out Brisemont’s features in the dancing light, and he sighed, relieved he was not alone.

The other Musketeer leaned against the far wall, body bowed to the side, his head lying against his left shoulder. The shadows danced over his features of his face, but Aramis could see Brisemont’s eyes were closed and he almost regretted disturbing his comrade’s peaceful repose despite the situation.

“Brisemont!” The name came out as more of a garbled cough. Aramis cleared his throat and tried again, this time louder with more clarity. “Brisemont! Wake up!”

The other Musketeer didn’t move. Aramis frowned as he studied his fellow captive, noting with unease that Brisemont’s hands were unbound, his entire body far too lax. Aramis let his head fall back against the dirt, swallowing again against the vile taste in his mouth. “No… Brisemont, my friend. Please…”

“It seems Brisemont will not be answering your plea,” a voice responded from beyond the small pool of light the candle provided. “I’m afraid he is no longer able to help you.”

Aramis startled at the voice, his head springing up, neck taut, eyes searching the darkness beyond the candle’s glow. “Who’s there?” he asked harshly, shifting in an attempt to push himself up. He was at a disadvantage with his hands secured behind his back and he felt far too vulnerable lying there, the need to get himself into a position to defend himself suddenly imperative. “What have you done?” he asked breathlessly once he’d managed to lever himself up. His eyes reluctantly shifted back to Brisemont and his breath hitched in his throat at the certainty of the man’s fate. “Why?”

An image – a ghost – slowly coalesced out of the darkness and Aramis gasped, his eyes wide in recognition.

“But… you… you’re dead…”

The very alive, very present figure of Mordelle laughed, his white teeth shining in the flickering light. Aramis scrambled to wrap his fuzzy mind around what he was seeing.

“I’ve been dead for quite some time, Aramis. And I believe I have you to thank for it.”

Aramis felt a moment of relief seeing the young Musketeer alive and whole despite his words, but his joy quickly soured as the man’s face took on a dark, threatening countenance. Still struggling to make sense of things, Aramis instinctively tried to get as far from the imposing figure as possible, pressing his boots into the dirt and scuttling back until his bound hands hit the rough stone wall behind him. He shook his head, blinking hard to shake the illusion, but when he gazed back up, Mordelle still stood before him.

“You fell,” he argued. “You drowned. There was no sign of…”

“My body?” Mordelle finished for him. He spread his hands to his sides. “Of course not. Here I am. Fine and fit, as you Musketeers like to say.”

“Are you not a Musketeer as well?”

Mordelle’s smile thinned, his dark eyes glittering. “I am but a shadow of the man I was intended to be.”

Aramis’ eyes narrowed, realizing the young man before him wasn’t quite what they had all taken him to be, but still unwilling to believe him capable of such a sordid plot. “Yet you still accepted the King’s commission. You still wear the uniform.” He lifted his chin, indicating the thick leather pauldron adorning Mordelle’s right shoulder.

Mordelle twisted his head. “What this?” He shrugged. “It’s just a piece of leather, Aramis. It means nothing.”

“It is a symbol of honor,” Aramis bristled, remembering how the younger man had made such a show of having his pauldrom resemble Aramis’ own. He narrowed his eyes at the brush off, his pride not allowing the slight to go uncontested. “Of brotherhood. A brotherhood you took an oath to uphold. A brotherhood you seemed so proud to be a part of.”

Mordelle laughed openly, shaking his head as he stepped closer and crouched down in front of the captive Musketeer. “You speak of honor? Of brotherhood? Yet you know nothing of true brotherhood. You left my brother to die. Abandoned him to his fate while you alone walked away.” He leaned closer, his head tilted to the side and Aramis caught a glimpse of a startling madness in his eyes. “Tell me, Aramis, is that how you define brotherhood? Leaving everyone else to die while you cower and survive?”

Aramis’ brow creased as he tried to fathom Mordelle’s words. “What are you talking about? I have never –“ His eyes widened suddenly, his mouth going dry. There was only one incident he could be referring to, but Aramis hesitated to say the words out loud. He could not mean… how could he know…

“You speak of Savoy.” His voice was barely a whisper, a huff of air floating in the abrupt silence. 

Mordell simply stared, his dark eyes unnerving in their familiarity. The face from which the eyes stared suddenly morphed into another, a distant yet familiar, one he had not thought of for nearly five long years. The young man in his mind was taller than Mordelle, his hair longer, lighter, but the eyes were unmistakable, and Aramis wondered why he hadn’t noticed the similarities before. 

“Morrisey.”

Mordelle smiled, pleased. “So you do remember him. That makes this so much easier.”

Aramis frowned as Mordelle shifted back and pushed up to his feet. “Morrisey was just a recruit,” the marksman voiced the recollection aloud. “He was assigned to the training mission like I was. I barely knew him.” His eyes lost focus as the memories he’d tried so hard to forget came flooding back. “He was on watch when we were attacked.” He looked back up at Mordelle. “They were already past him before any of us knew what was happening.”

“It was not his fault!” Mordelle shouted and Aramis flinched at the fury in his voice. “You were the one who left him there to die! You were the one who abandoned them all!”

Aramis shook his head in dispute. Years ago he would’ve agreed, but Athos, Porthos and even Captain Treville had repeatedly, patiently explained to him he was not at fault and he’d come to accept it – especially after seeing Marsac again and learning the full truth of the tragedy. “I was wounded… struck in the head… I don’t remember –“ 

He grunted as Mordelle grabbed the front of his shirt and hauled him to his feet, surprised to silence by the man’s sudden proximity. “You ran like a coward!” Mordelle slammed the defenseless Musketeer against the cold stone. “You left him to die! I heard the stories! You left them all to die!”

Aramis was still shaking his head. “No. You’re wrong. You weren’t there. You don’t know –“

“I know he died because of you!” Mordelle’s spittle landed on his cheek and Aramis flinched but could not tear his eyes away, his gaze held captive by the madman before him.

“No,” he tried again, forcing his voice to remain calm in the face of Mordelle’s rage. “You’re wrong.”

The backhand came out of nowhere and Aramis grunted as his head snapped back into the unforgiving wall.

“I have waited a long time to see you pay for what you’ve done.” Mordelle stepped back and Aramis stumbled as the strong hands released him. 

“If it’s me you want to punish, why harm the others? Why kill men who had nothing to do with any of it?”

Mordelle’s smile chilled him to the bone. “Because their deaths are your penance, Aramis. You destroyed my family. You let my brother die in that cold forest. Now you must watch yours die before I send you to your grave.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

It took longer than Athos would’ve liked; the fate of his missing men weighing heavily on his mind, but he forced himself to give Porthos’ injury the attention it deserved. Porthos himself seemed more than eager to begin their search and it took both Athos and d’Artagnan to pacify the bigger man and keep him still long enough to properly treat his wound.

Once the arm was stitched and wrapped to Athos’ satisfaction, they made their way out of the wing of the chateau. Their first stop was the kitchen in search of the maids Athos had not been able to speak to earlier in deference to the time it took to summon them. He had not wanted to delay his return and cause the others undo concern – a decision, as it turned out, that was quite fortuitous. Madame Mollier had not returned, but he had instructed one of the cooks to have the maids remain until he returned to question them.

Now, faced with the mysterious disappearance of two of his men, Athos was determined to get to the bottom of whatever was happening on Belle Île and show whoever was behind the attacks why it was unwise to mess with the Musketeers.

As they approached the kitchen, a young girl who was sitting on a wooden chair just inside the door stood and waited for them to approach.

“Are you one of the maids tasked with serving the Musketeers in the east wing?” Athos asked without bothering with introductions.

The girl nodded, nervously flipping a strand of dark hair behind her ear.

“Yes, Monsieur. I am Marie. Have I done something to displease you?” She kept her head bowed, her voice trembling, uneasy.

“You are aware that several of my men have been killed since our arrival on the island?”

She nodded once, hesitantly, but still did not meet their eyes. 

“One of them, a boy not much older than you, was poisoned last evening. It has been determined the wine delivered to his room was laced with white arsenic. What do you know of this?”

The maid finally looked up, her eyes wide with apprehension. “I know nothing, Monsieur.”

“You delivered the wine, did you not?”

Marie shook her head adamantly. “No, Monsieur. I was instructed to leave the trays for the Musketeers in the kitchen last evening. That both Lissette and I were to remove ourselves from service for the night.” She shrugged. “It was unusual, but neither of us dared to question the order for fear of it being withdrawn.” She gave them a tremulous smile. “It is not often we are given an evening to ourselves, to do as we please.”

Athos exchanged a look with the other two Musketeers, seeing from their expressions they believed the girl as he dd. 

“And the other maid, Lissette? Where is she?”

Marie shook her head. “I don’t know,” she admitted, her brow furrowing in concern. “I have not seen her today. It is unlike her to be so careless.”

Athos sighed, knowing this line of questioning would not bring them any closer to the answers they sought.

Nodding to the girl in dismissal, he turned to go but paused as one more question formed in his mind. “One last thing, on whose authority were you relieved of duty last night?” 

The maid cocked her head. “Why, Madame Mollier’s, of course.”

Athos’ lips thinned at the confirmation of the cook’s involvement. He bowed stiffly to the young maid. “Thank you, Madamoiselle. You have been most helpful.”

The girl scurried away leaving the three men huddled near the door of the kitchen.

“How exactly was that helpful?” Porthos asked, his voice tense. Athos knew his friend’s apprehension was caused more by his growing concern than the pain from his wound. 

He shared Porthos’ trepidation.

“It would seem quite obvious Madame Mollier is somehow involved,” Athos explained. “She was not being entirely truthful with us when we spoke to her earlier. She left the kitchen suddenly after we questioned her and has not returned. Even Brisemont noticed her disquietude concerning our inquiries.”

“Then we need to find her,” d’Artagnan insisted.

“Yes,” Athos nodded, his eyes flickering around the bustling room. “Though it would seem she is neglecting her duties at the moment.” He reached out and tagged the arm of one of the young boys carrying a sack of flour. “Excuse me, where might I find Madame Mollier?”

The boy’s eyes flickered to the pauldron on Athos’ shoulder, his eyes going comically wide as he recognized the fleur-di-lis tooled into the worn leather. 

“We were told the Madame has taken ill,” the boy informed them. “Though I did see her near the cold cellar just a few moments ago speaking with another of your men.”

Aramis? The three Musketeers exchanged a look of surprise.

“What did this man look like?” d’Artagnan asked. “Was he about my size? A bit older? Long dark hair?”

The boy shook his head. “No, Monsieur. He was much shorter, not as thin. And I think his hair was light, but not so fair as mine.” He pushed some of the straw colored hair from his eyes. “And he looked to be about as old as my brother,” he eyed d’Artagnan speculatively. “Perhaps a bit younger than you.”

Athos frowned. “I doubt the boy could mistake Brisemont for a youth. And the only other Musketeers who fit that description were Mordelle and Bernajoux – ”

“Who are both dead,” Porthos finished his friend’s thought. “The cellar?” Porthos turned to the boy, his voice carrying enough insistence to make the lad take a step back, eyeing the big Musketeer’s bulk with alarm. “Where might we find the cellar?” 

The lad pointed toward the door at the rear of the busy room. “It’s out back past the well. Near the gardens. I can show you.”

Pleased with the boy’s eagerness to help, Athos motioned him ahead, the three men following on his heels.

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

 

He would never admit how long it took to regain his composure after the shock of seeing Mordelle – Morrisey – alive and hearing the accusations he’d spewed. When he’d been released from the madman’s hold, Aramis had allowed himself to sink back to the ground, still dizzy from whatever had been in the wine Mollier had delivered to him earlier.

Mollier.

The steward was obviously part of this mad scheme Mordelle had dreamed up, though the depth of his involvement was quite beyond the Musketeer in his current state.

Aramis drew his knees up close to his body as he watched Mordelle stalk back and forth, in and out of the narrow circle of light. Twisting his hands behind his back, he searched for a weakness in the bindings. The ropes were thick, the knots strong, but as the cord abraded his wrists, the blood coated his skin and the bindings became slick, beginning to give slightly. He ignored the burning pain the friction educed and focused on the man before him.

“Your brother was a good man as I remember.” He kept his voice low, even, not wanting to set Mordelle off again, unwilling to test how far the man would stray from his original plan. “He would’ve made a fine Musketeer. Have you stopped to consider what he would say about what you are doing in his name?”

Mordelle laughed, a short, humorless huff through his nose. “Actually, yes, I have,” he smiled at Aramis and the marksman swallowed at the cold hatred in his eyes. “But then I remember that he is dead, thanks to you, so he cannot say anything at all.”

“Then perhaps I knew him better than you,” the Musketeer continued. He barely remembered Pierre Morrisey, but what he did recall in no way resembled the man before him. “The Morrisey I knew would do whatever he could to help a friend – a brother.” He put the some emphasis on the word, trying to appeal to Mordelle’s sense of loyalty, honor. “He would not want his name stained by the blood of his comrades. I have no doubt of that.”

Mordelle crossed his arms on his chest, watching the marksman, a myriad of emotions flickering across his face. After a moment he shook his head. “No. If my brother had known how his death drove my mother to despair, my father to despondency, he would want the same as I. He would want the man responsible for his family’s misery brought to justice.” His voice was level, but Aramis could detect a touch of sadness, carefully hidden behind the wall of hatred.

“So bring me to justice if you believe I am responsible,” Aramis countered. “Report me to Treville, the King even.”

Mordelle clicked his tongue in response. “As if Treville would condemn one of his favorites, one of his Inseparables. Don’t think I haven’t heard the rumors of how Marsac returned to punish you only to have Treville step in to force his hand.”

Aramis shook his head, dismayed at how far from reality the young man’s delusions had wandered but knowing the truth was something he would not hear. “You heard rumors? That is your evidence to my guilt?”

“I don’t need rumors to validate what we both know is true.” Mordelle waved a dismissive hand. “You walked away when everyone else died. What more evidence do I need?”

Aramis tilted his head to the side and narrowed his eyes, ignoring his captor’s flawed logic for the moment. “Why now?” he asked, genuinely curious. Although the Duke’s recent visit – as well as Marsac’s return – had stirred up feelings he thought long resolved, he had not allowed the incident to rule his life since that day. He in no way equated his pain with the loss of a blood brother, but the loss of twenty comrades – now twenty-one – gave him a unique perspective into what the young man’s family must have endured and he felt a tinge of sympathy for Mordelle’s grief. “It’s been over five years since the massacre at Savoy. Why wait so long to seek your vengeance?” He shrugged. “You’ve been commissioned for months, living amongst us at the garrison, working, drinking, training… why wait so long if you just wanted to see me dead?”

“You misunderstand, Aramis.” Mordelle crossed back to crouch in front of the bound Musketeer once again. “I do not seek your death. I seek justice. You see, brother,” he said the word with such feeling it left Aramis breathless, “I want you to understand what you have done. I want to know that you’ve grasped the damage you’ve wrought, to see you suffer as my mother and father have suffered.” He leaned back on one heel, swallowing hard against his emotion. “That is what I want for you. For you to know what it feels like to lose everything and everyone you held dear, and be able to do nothing to stop it.”

Aramis forced himself to meet Mordelle’s gaze as he finally worked a hand free from the bindings behind his back. “I am truly sorry for your pain,” he offered, and he truly was, but after years of his friends’ careful reminders, he could no more take the blame for Savoy than for the sun rising in the east. “But there is one thing you did not count on, my friend.”

Mordelle frowned, disbelieving. “And what would that be?”

The young man leaned closer, curious, and Aramis took advantage of the opening.

tbc


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

As they approached the well behind the kitchens, d’Artagnan couldn’t help but cringe as the memory of Bernajoux’ pale body flashed in his memory. He paused, his attention drawn to the dark patch of grass, stained brown by the dead man’s blood, only to be bumped by Porthos’ broad shoulder. The bigger man looked down knowingly, tilting his head toward a disappearing Athos, reminding the Gascon they had much more important business at hand.

_Aramis._

As he stepped around the well, he wondered whether Aramis had left Andres’ room willingly or by force. He knew the others were considering the same question, but he dared not voice it out loud for fear of upsetting the precarious grip Porthos and Athos had on their trepidation concerning their missing brothers. He knew they were worried for Brisemont, the fact the man had not made it back to the rooms after leaving Athos a primary concern, but he didn’t even attempt to fool himself into doubting their true fear was for Aramis. Already injured, there was little reason for the marksman to disappear from the room, especially leaving it in such a state.

The overturned chair and table could only be taken as a sign of struggle, the dark stain of wine on the carpet an ominous clue. Whether Aramis had been poisoned like Degausse or merely drugged and taken against his will were both distinct possibilities, the latter, though still disturbing, being the more positive scenario. If he had been taken, the question foremost on their minds was why? Why had he not been killed and left for them to find like the others?

Skirting around the well, d’Artagnan picked up his pace to catch up with Athos and the boy who were starting down a well-worn path near the edge of the garden. The path wound between a copse of fig trees, curving toward a small brick outbuilding near the back edge of the estate. The door to the building stood open and the Musketeers could easily make out the ample figure of Madame Mollier nervously pacing inside.

Athos turned to the boy and thanked him, bidding him to return to his duties. The boy quickly complied.

Without bothering to announce their arrival, the three men crowded into the small building, startling the woman, forcing her back toward a row of shelving against the side wall. Wooden shelves lined the brick walls, jars of preserves and spices scattered along the worn surfaces. Bushels of fruits and bags of grains lined the floor beneath the shelving, fresh straw scattered over the packed dirt. A wooden door sat flush on the floor near the back, no doubt leading to a cold cellar containing wine and more produce below. There were no windows inside the building, leaving the daylight spilling in from the doorway the only source of illumination.

“Madame Mollier,” Athos bowed his head. “I believe you have neglected to inform us of all you know of our comrade’s unfortunate deaths.”

The cook placed a hand on her ample bosom, her eyes shifting from Athos to the only means of escape. Porthos deftly stepped to the side, placing his bulk in the doorframe, arms crossed on his chest.

“Madame,” Athos repeated. He took a few steps further into the room, causing the woman to inch backwards until she knocked into the shelves, nowhere else to go.

“I… I’m afraid I cannot help you, Monsieur,” she stammered. “I must return to my duties.” She took a step toward the door, but Porthos intimidating presence stopped her cold.

“One of the maids informed me that they were released from their duties last evening by your instruction,” Athos continued as if conversing about the weather. “It seemed quite unusual, yet they were told not to deliver the food trays to the Musketeers, that it would be taken care of.” He stepped closer, watching the flush creep up the woman’s neck and face. “Would you care to explain who delivered the trays to our rooms and why one of my men died after partaking of their content?”

Madame Mollier shook her head, her hands fretting at the bow on her collar, her eyes threatening tears. “You don’t understand, it wasn’t… I… I did not mean… I…”

“Please, Madame,” d’Artagnan pleaded. “Two more of our friends are missing, quite possibly in danger. If you know anything…”

The woman’s chest heaved and she emitted a strangled sob, placing her hand across her mouth as the tears began to stream down her cheeks. “I’m sorry… I didn’t… he is all I have left… he said we had to make it right… it was the only way for justice to be served…”

Confused by her rambling, d’Artagnan turned to Athos who simply shrugged, unable to decipher the woman’s incoherent babbling any better than he could.

“It was not her doing.”

The Musketeers turned as one to find Foquet’s steward standing just outside the open door. Mollier looked resigned, hands behind his back, shoulders slumped, no sign of the disdain they had become accustomed to in his countenance. 

“Then perhaps you would care to explain just whose doing it was.” The demand was clear in Athos voice and Mollier responded with a heavy nod.

Mollier calmly waited for Porthos to step aside and allow him access before he hastened to his wife, took her hand in his and whispered to her softly. She nodded, wiping tears from her cheeks and bowed her head, apparently willing to allow her husband to answer for the both of them.

“My wife has not been well,” he began. He looked to the woman with remorse. “I knew the strain she was under, but I did nothing to stop it. Stop him.”

“Who?” Athos asked immediately. “Who has been attacking my men?”

“No!” Madame Mollier cried, clutching at her husband’s sleeve. “You cannot. I will not lose him, too!”

The Steward patted the woman’s arms. “It has gone too far, my dear. You know this. We should never have allowed it to happen to begin with.” 

The woman sobbed harder, but eventually nodded, turning toward the wall and dabbing at her eyes with the edge of her apron.

Mollier took a deep breath and stepped in front of his wife, his eyes rising to meet Athos’, resigned. “I will tell you what you need to know, Monsieur, but I must ask that you do not treat my wife harshly as she only acted out of grief.”

Athos exchanged a glance with the other two before turning back to the steward. “We will listen and act accordingly,” Athos offered. “That is all I can promise.”

Mollier nodded, accepting the Musketeer’s terms.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

As soon as Mordelle leaned forward, shifting his center of gravity, Aramis launched himself at his captor, taking him by surprise. For a moment the marksman had the upper hand, but the dizziness and weakness resulting from whatever it was he’d been drugged with soon took a toll, allowing the younger man to land a blow to his cheek, sending him reeling as the pounding in his head escalated and forced him to his knees.

“Pitiful, Aramis,” Mordelle shook his head. “I thought you of all of them would be much more of a challenge.”

Aramis didn’t bother to reply to the taunt. He allowed himself to drop to his side, leaning on one elbow, his back against the first row of wine racks.

“Sorry to disappoint,” he responded as soon as he was able to open his eyes and not see the room spinning. “Perhaps we could try again once the drug you slipped into the brandy has had time to dissipate.”

Mordell sat against the wall Aramis had just abandoned. “I doubt we’ll have that long,” he said with a hint of remorse. “I’m sure the others have noticed your absence by now. It’s simply a matter of time before they come searching for you.”

Aramis shifted, trying to find a comfortable position on the cold floor. “You don’t seem overly concerned.”

The younger man shrugged. “I’m not. I doubt they’ll look for you here. And I have plans for them already in place. I am not alone in this, Aramis.””

The thought of an accomplice out there, still working to bring harm to his friends sent a chill up his spine. He shivered, trying to repress his anger.

“They had nothing to do with Savoy,” he argued. “D’Artagnan wasn’t even a Musketeer then. How can you punish him for something that happened when he was still a farmboy in Gascony?”

Mordelle sighed as if tired of repeating himself. “I am not punishing d’Artagnan, Aramis.” He spoke slowly as if to a child. “It is you who must be punished. D’Artagnan, Athos, Porthos… all the others… they are simply the means to an end.”

“Do not do this,” Aramis pleaded. “Please. They are good men. They were all good men. You’ve lived with them, fought beside them. You know this to be true.”

“You know what I know to be true?” Mordelle asked, his head tilted to the side in thought. “I know my brother was so excited to become a Musketeer. It was his dream ever since we were boys, staying here on the island with our uncle while my parents worked in the homes of nobles in Paris. We didn’t have much, he and I – my uncle wasn’t exactly what you would call a nurturing man – but we had our dreams and we had each other. And we promised each other we would always be together.”

His eyes dropped and his voice hardened. “And then he left. He was a few years older than me, and when he came of age, he talked Uncle into sending him to Paris under the guise of working for whatever house our parents were currently employed by. Uncle agreed to finance his trip, no doubt eager to be rid of at least one of us, but Pierre had other plans. He was a fairly competent swordsman, knew how to ride and shoot,” he glanced up at Aramis, his expression forlorn, the first true emotion outside of anger he’d shown. “Things he’d promised to teach me, but never got around to.” He shrugged. “I eventually learned enough to pass, but Pierre, as you know, was much better.” He smiled, his eyes again losing focus. “We didn’t even know he’d joined the Musketeers until we were informed of his death. Can you imagine that? Not even realizing he’d accomplished his goal until it had already killed him?”

Aramis shook his head, surprised to find himself sympathizing with the man. “He would’ve been a good soldier,” he assured his captor. “From what I can remember, he was well liked among the men.”

“Of course he was. Pierre was always well liked. “

Aramis sensed an underlying tenor of jealousy in Mordelle’s voice, but thought better of bringing it to light.

“So were you, as I recall.” The affable smile the compliment received gave Aramis a tinge of hope.

“I did feel as if I belonged,” Mordelle admitted. “But, I was there for a reason.” The smile faded and his expression became clouded once more. He reached behind him and retrieved a sharp dagger – Aramis’ own – from his belt. “I’m sorry, Aramis. I really did come to like you. But my brother’s death must be avenged.” He shrugged as if there were no other choice. 

Perhaps there wasn’t for him. Aramis could see the young man was so entrenched in his torment, his grief for what he had lost, that there would be no way to reach him, no way to dispel the notion of revenge that had so solidly implanted itself in his head, in his very soul. There was little Aramis could do to change his mind, but the marksman would not let Mordelle’s soul fall into such darkness without a fight. 

If Mordelle was determined to go through with his plan, Aramis would fight with everything he had to not only save the brothers who remained, but save the anguished young man from himself. 

As Mordelle pushed himself to his feet, the dagger’s blade shining in the flickering light, Aramis swallowed, forcing himself to breathe deeply through his nose, gathering what little strength he’d been able to regain. When the young man stepped closer, Aramis swung a leg out, catching Mordelle by surprise, knocking his feet from under him. Mordelle cried out, twisting as he fell into the shelves, toppling the dusty wine bottles nestled on them. The resounding crash was loud enough to carry beyond the room, as was Mordelle’s angry shout as he rolled across the muddied ground, ignorant of the shards of glass left by the broken bottles. Bounding up with the vigor of youth, he turned on Aramis and with a roar tackled the Musketeer with a strength borne of madness. 

Desperate to keep the blade from piercing his chest, Aramis used both hands to grab hold of Mordelle’s arm, knowing that in his current state he would be no match for his captor’s determination and muscle. As gravity aided Mordelle’s strength, Aramis silently prayed his brothers were closer than either of them believed. 

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm 

“Mordelle?” d’Artagnan asked, astounded at the thought the young Musketeer still lived. “We saw him die! He went over the wall and was sucked down into the water.”

Mollier shook his head, his arm around his wife, gently rubbing her back. “My son spent many years on the island,” he explained. “While my wife and I were employed in Paris, he and his brother were sent here to live with their uncle, my wife’s brother. He was a bachelor and had little time for children, but we could not keep them with us under the circumstances.”

“I saw where he went over,” d’Artagnan insisted. “Nobody could’ve survived that.”

“Was it near the east wall?”

The young Musketeer nodded.

A faint smile graced the older man’s lips. “There is an opening just under the waterline in an area near the docks. We always assumed it was left there by the workers who originally built the fortifications. The boys discovered it when they were quite young. It was a favorite pastime to shock the new arrivals on the island by pretending to fall to their doom only to appear safe and sound moments later beneath the docks.” He smiled sadly. “Boys can be quite a handful, especially when they are left to their own devices more often than not.”

Athos eyes met Porthos’ before flickering to d’Artagnan, noting the bigger man’s expression of amusement, the sentiment hitting closer to home than either of them cared to express at the moment. 

“So Anton Mordelle is your son,” d’Artagnan concluded, still attempting to unravel Mollier’s confession. “But he’s a Musketeer. His uncle purchased his commission.”

Mollier nodded. “I’m afraid it was under false pretenses.” He sighed, suddenly looking very old and weary. “It was our other son, Pierre, who is the actual raison d’être for all of this.”

“Pierre Mordelle,” Porthos shook his head. “Don’t know the name. Not Mollier either.” He glanced at Athos who shrugged in reply. “What’s ‘is connection to the Musketeers?”

“He went by Morrisey,” the steward confessed. “Pierre decided to take his grandmother’s name when he joined the regiment. It’s a noble name, and he thought it would afford him a better opportunity.”

“Morrisey,” Athos frowned, thoughtful. “I believe there was a Morrisey many years ago, but I don’t recall…” his voice trailed off, the memory of where he had seen the name suddenly appearing like a ghost before him. His eyes widened and his gaze locked onto Porthos’. “Pierre Morrisey is one of the names etched onto a cross in the garrison cemetery.”

Porthos nodded slowly, Athos’ recollection spiking his own memory. “One of the men who died at Savoy.” He raised his head, his expression one of sorrow. “I’m sorry,” he expressed his condolences to the parents of their fallen comrade. “We didn’t know.”

“You couldn’t have,” Mollier conceded. “Anton did not want you to.”

“But why harm these men?” d’Artagnan asked the obvious question. “Most of them had nothing to do with Savoy. We weren’t even part of the regiment five years ago.”

“That’s true,” Athos agreed. “Only Andrés, Porthos, Aramis and myself were commissioned then. And only Aramis was…” at Madame Molliers soft cry of anguish, Athos suddenly understood. “Your son has been trying to kill Aramis all along. Blaming him for your son’s death at Savoy.”

Mollier nodded sadly. “He joined the Musketeers to discover what truly happened to his brother. When he realized your friend, Aramis, survived when Pierre did not, he became infatuated with him. Once plans were made for your journey here, he and my brother-in-law arranged for our employment and devised a plan to avenge Pierre by punishing the man he’d decided was responsible.”

Porthos’ growl was menacing. “Aramis barely survived. He’s as much a victim as any of ‘em.”

“Not to Anton,” Mollier conceded. “We had no idea what lengths our son would go to. I assure you, I would never have agreed to any of this if I’d known he meant to harm your men.” He turned his gaze to Athos. “I tried to talk him out of this, but his brother’s death did something to the boy. I could no longer reach him… if I ever could.”

“Aramis is missing,” Athos informed him. “We believe he was taken by force from the room where he was watching over another of our wounded men.”

Mollier seemed to shrink in upon himself. “I’m sorry, I knew the brandy was laced with something. I told Anton I would not be a party to this anymore but –“

A crash from below interrupted the steward’s confession and the three Musketeers rushed to the grounded door on the far side of the room. Pulling with all his strength, Porthos nearly ripped the heavy wooden slat from the floor, scrambling down the wooden ladder positioned below. Sounds of struggle echoed from the furthest corner of the dark, dank storeroom, a small pool of flickering light shining out beyond the rows of shelving.

Hearing Athos and d’Artagnan scamper down the ladder behind him, Porthos moved swiftly toward the sounds. As he approached, he noticed Brisemont leaning against the wall in the corner, his body far too still to simply be unconscious or asleep. Distracted by the increasing sounds of struggle, he forced himself to ignore Brisemont for the moment and rounded the final row of shelves only to be greeted by the sight of the very much alive Mordelle straddling Aramis, the point of a dagger pressed close to the marksman’s chest. Aramis lay recumbent amongst glittering, shattered fragments of glass, one shoulder against the shelf post, head bent forward, teeth gritted in effort as he strove to arrest the downward momentum of the blade. With a roar of anger, Porthos launched himself at the struggling pair, grasping Mordelle by the waist and bodily slamming him to the dirt floor, away from his flagging friend.

As Athos and d’Artagnan rushed to Aramis’ aid, Porthos rolled a surprised Mordelle onto his back and smashed a fist into his face with all the force of his fury. They young man didn’t even have a chance to cry out before going limp beneath Porthos’ bulk. As soon as Mordelle’s body went slack, Porthos turned to find Athos already levering Aramis up, settling their missing marksman against the post behind him.

“Your timing,” Aramis panted, his face pale, but smiling nonetheless, “is impeccable as always.”

“Are you all right?” Porthos asked, his eyes searching his friend’s body, relieved to find no blood staining his shirt.

Aramis cleared his throat and nodded, allowing his head to fall back against the post, eyes closed. “Dizzy and a bit drained, my friend, but I assure you I am unharmed.” He opened his eyes, his pupils large in the scant light, his gaze glassy and unfocused. “Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for poor Brisemont.”

D’Artagnan moved toward the other Musketeer propped against the wall in the shadows and placed a hand against the man’s chest. After a moment he let his arm drop, shaking his head grimly, confirming Aramis’ words. 

“How did you find me? Mordelle said he’d already set traps in motion for you.”

Athos placed a hand on his friend’s neck, frowning at the cold, clammy skin he encountered. “We were following up on what one of the maids told us. Her testimony led us to Madame Mollier. It was her husband, the Steward who finally confessed their involvement with Mordelle’s plan.”

“He was avenging his brother,” Aramis let his head roll, his gaze searching and finding Mordelle’s unconscious body lying where Porthos had left him. “He was a Musketeer –“

“Who died at Savoy,” Porthos finished for him. “We know. According to his parents, he blamed you for surviving where his brother didn’t.”

Aramis sighed, the sound forlorn. 

“Aramis?” Athos began, one brow raised in concern. He paused at the marksman’s raised hand.

“I know. Though I will always carry some guilt for having survived alone, I was not at fault, as you have all repeatedly reminded me.” Aramis rubbed at his eyes before moving his hand around to knead the back of his neck. “Despite Mordelle’s beliefs, wounded as I was, I could not have saved his brother any more than I could have saved the others.” He spoke as if by rote, but Porthos was glad to hear the words given so freely.

“It’s about time.”

A reserved smile graced Aramis’ face. “Though I doubt we will be able to convince our young friend of it.”

“Mordelle will have to face what he has done,” Athos remarked. “He has needlessly killed six good men. No matter the reason, the King will not allow it to go unpunished.”

Aramis nodded, resigned. “And the Molliers? I assume they are the grieving parents he spoke of?”

“They admitted to knowing of his grievance, but not his intentions.” Porthos smiled, pleased to see his friend’s acuity had not been affected by his ordeal. “They contend that while they did help him, they did not know he intended to murder our brothers until it was too late.”

“The Steward brought me the brandy,” Aramis stated.

Athos nodded. “Knowing full well it was drugged. He and his wife will be held accountable for their part in all of this.”

Aramis leaned back against the beam and closed his eyes. “Even all these years later, the Cardinal’s net of treachery has a wide cast.”

Porthos couldn’t argue the point. 

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

It took some effort to get the marksman up the ladder, his dizziness and weakness hampering his progress until Porthos simply put a shoulder beneath his rump and levered him up to Athos and d’Artagnan who had preceded them up. By the time they were all above ground and ready to return to the chateau, the Molliers were nowhere to be found, having taken their leave when the Musketeers had gone to their brother’s aid. 

The couple’s familiarity with the island offered them an advantage, but there being only one means of escape made their leaving Belle Île without being noticed highly unlikely. Once their involvement was reported to Foquet, there would be scant opportunity for them to avoid detection.

D’Artagnan suggested one of them stay behind and guard Mordelle while the others informed the Marquis of what had happened. Pointing out it was possible his parents would return for him in an ill-advised attempt to protect him from the punishment he would face for his crimes, the Gascon offered to remain to guard their prisoner. Athos quickly agreed with the young man’s reasoning, though chose a different solution. He remained up top with Aramis while Porthos and d’Artagnan returned to bind their prisoner and haul him up the ladder. The fresh air – and absence of threat, no doubt – had a healing effect on the marksman and Porthos was pleased to see the color returning to his friends face when he returned, a subdued Mordelle in tow. Whether it be acceptance of his fate or the residual effects of Porthos’ fist, Mordelle showed no more signs of fight, and Athos bid Porthos to return to the chateau with Aramis while he and d’Artagnan delivered Mordelle and reported the disappearance of the Molliers. 

“You sure you’re all right?” Porthos inquired as they trudged back up the road toward Foquet’s estate. Although the marksman no longer appeared pale or unstable, his silence was becoming unnerving.

“I’m fine,” Aramis assured him. “I just wish there had been some way to reach Mordelle – or is it Mollier?” He shrugged. “I just wish we had been able to reach him before he took such drastic measures.”

Porthos grunted in agreement. “We had no idea who he was, ‘Mis. He seemed like a normal recruit. Outside of the shine he took to you, there was no reason for us to question his judgment.” Porthos grinned, eyeing his friend sideways. “Though that should’ve been warning enough.”

Aramis chuckled, bumping Porthos’ shoulder. “You, my friend, are not as humorous as you believe yourself to be.”

Porthos huffed a laugh, shrugging in agreement.

“Do you think his parents will be able to elude the Marquis guards once their involvement is known?”

“I doubt it,” Porthos sobered, waving a hand toward the land before them. “There’s plenty of places to hide, but when it comes right down to it, it’s an island and I doubt they’re gonna be able to get back to France without being found out.”

“It’s a pity,” Aramis sighed.

“They helped their son kill six Musketeers, Aramis.” Porthos stopped, turning to face his friend, a hand on Aramis’ arm. “You can’t tell me you feel sorry for them.”

The marksman wouldn’t meet Porthos’ gaze, instead let his eyes drift back toward the expanse of the bay. “They lost a son, Porthos. In a most devastating way. They were desperate not to lose another. I can’t condemn them for following their hearts.” 

“They’re going to lose him anyway,” Porthos reminded him. “Even if they didn’t know what he was going to do, they knew he meant to cause you harm. They didn’t try hard enough to stop him. As far as I’m concerned, that makes them just as guilty.” Aramis’ forgiving nature had always been something Porthos had admired, but in this case, Porthos could not share the sentiment. He knew it was a harsh stand, but where the lives of his brothers were concerned, Porthos held little mercy for those who would threaten them.

Aramis’ smiled, finally meeting his friend’s gaze. “Thank you.”

Porthos slapped a hand on his back, nudging him to resume their trek toward the estate. “You can thank me by not straying from my sight until we manage to get off this rock.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmm

Once Foquet was informed of his servants’ involvement in the plot to kill the Musketeers, he made the decision to leave for Paris immediately, foregoing the need to personally see to the business of the island in favor of returning the King to his palace before any other tragedy could befall his guests. Mordelle was escorted onto the ship, imprisoned in the hold, guarded by two of the Marquis men. Louis, having finally been apprised of the man’s plot, made little comment, allowing Foquet to take charge of the prisoner, content to keep his distance from the proceeding lest he have to explain what had actually happened at Savoy.

Aramis was not surprised with the King’s refusal to take part, knowing the monarch believed the loss of so many honorable men was a small price to pay for the sanctity of his secrets. Though Aramis would always bristle at the thought of the King and the Cardinal’s actions, he had meant what he’d said to his friends. With Marsac’s passing and Captain Treville’s confession, he had finally been able to put the massacre behind him. While he would never agree that the deaths of all those men was necessary, he could at least understand the need, and take solace in knowing they died for their country as all Musketeers have pledged to do.

And now the tally had increased by six. Six more Musketeers dead because of the political subterfuge of men who deemed the soldiers merely pawns in their games. Mordelle may be directly responsible for the deaths of the six men on the island, but it was the Cardinal – and the King – whose hands would forever be stained with their blood.

Aramis stood on the dock, looking out toward the choppy waters of the bay. The sky was clear and if he squinted, he could almost make out the shore of the mainland across the azure sea. He no longer felt the effects of whatever he’d been drugged with, but he still felt unsettled. Perhaps it was knowing so many lives had been lost at his expense, or perhaps it was just the need to leave this place and return to Paris, praying the ghosts of those men would remain behind, but knowing they would not. He felt the wooden planks of the dock vibrate as his brothers approached, the three of them coming to a halt on either side of him, their presence, as always, a buoy in the tumultuous currents of his mind.

“The guards found the Molliers’ bodies on the other side of the island,” Porthos said without preamble. “Looked like they jumped from the cliffs into the sea, their bodies washed up on the rocks.”

Aramis sighed, his chest tightening at the news. There would hardly have been a chance for the older couple to escape punishment for their part in the deaths of six of the King’s guards, Aramis had hoped they would be gone before the Steward and his wife could be apprehended. Not knowing their fate would’ve been easier than mourning their loss.

“I suppose it was for the best,” he surmised. “They had suffered enough. Though it is a sin to take your own life, I will pray for God to understand their misery and grant forgiveness.”

“At least they won’t have to live through seeing another son die,” d’Artagnan agreed. None of them had any doubt as to Mordelle’s fate. Despite the production of a trial, it was clear the would-be Musketeer would hang for his crimes soon after they returned. 

“You’re not feeling sorry for him, too?”

Aramis shrugged at Porthos’ inquiry. “Grief is a powerful force that sometimes leads good people to do terrible things.” He did not deny Porthos’ right to feel satisfaction that justice would be served, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to feel the same. It was clear, Mordelle had felt abandoned, not by just his parents, but by his brother who had run off to fulfill his dreams and left his young brother behind. Perhaps it was misplaced anger that had sent Mordelle onto his path of destruction, but Aramis knew what it felt like to be left alone with no one and no place to turn for help.

He had been fortunate. He’d had Porthos and Athos to help him return to the light. Would things have turned out differently if only Mordelle had found that kind of support? Could Aramis have made a difference if he’d not turned away when the young man’s attentions became uncomfortable? 

It was a question he would never be able to answer.

**Finis**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So did you figure it out? Hope you enjoyed this little murder mystery -- Musketeer style. thanks for reading!


End file.
